Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

 “Oh, look. The beautiful bookkeeper fell in love with the handsome billionaire. Who would’ve guessed?” I snort in disgust as the sappy music runs over the end credits to the film, You’ ve Got Mail. The scrolling motion is making me feel a little queasy. I’m unsure if it's the film’s happily ever after or my fourth—or is this my fifth mug of red wine?

“Hey El,” I shout over my shoulder. “I’m sure he would’ve fallen for her if she looked like….” I cut off my mumbling with an eye roll. No, I’m not going there. Not now. No, tonight is about happier things—like buy one, get one free on red wine. Or enjoying the chocolates Franny’s boyfriend brought for his latest apology. It’s not ─I repeat ─it’s not about the lack of plus size heroines in romances.

 “Why does Franny always make us watch this lovey-dovey stuff, anyway? Wait, never mind.” I already know the answer to my question. My other best friend, and El’s sister Franny, has been piling on the rom-coms for months, and tonight is no exception. I think she’s trying her hardest to soften me up, one movie at a time. But it ain’t working, Luv. Nuh-uh. Not with me. Never again.

I glance over at El, all sprawled out on her king-size bed. Her comically large blue feather lashes lay motionless on her cheeks while light snores slip through her neon-green lips. I’d swear she resembles a bird of paradise that’s just passed out from swigging too much nectar.

The rest of her ensemble is equally vibrant. Lime green tights under a purple and yellow tartan kilt, and a Guns ‘n Roses t-shirt slashed to ribbons over a bright blue lace bra. And to top it off, more plastic florescent jewellery than the entire 1980s ever made. People may find her garish, but I’ve never once lost her in a crowd.

I snuggle into one of El’s giant beanbags as my tired itchy eyes survey this deluxe bedroom. The imported Spanish tiles and an enormous walk-in closet come as standard at Trinity Hall, but it couldn’t be El’s home without a splash of colour.

Squashy tie-dye scatter-cushions litter the floor. Crystals of every shape and size hang from the ceiling. Mandala tapestries, attached with fancy, mark-free stickers, cover the walls—unlike my knock-off sticky-tack, which pulls off the paint on mine.

Envious.

Who, me?

I plonk my mug of wine beside me on a particular squishy part of the beanbag.

“The premise of this movie is insane,” I say out loud, but more to myself. “Falling in love over email without seeing each other first? Yeah, right. These filmmakers make love and romance sound so easy, like everyone can find it. Bullshit!”

Recently, El had plans for my love-life, too. She set me up on a blind date and said it would build my confidence and shatter my thoughts about being “attractively challenged”.

Unfortunately, it ended badly, and now the reason we’re inside Franny and El’s flat on a Saturday night and not getting hammered with the rest of the student body. That date struck the final nail in my starry-eyed coffin. And now I know that love, romance, and passion are only for pretty people.

Funny how I've gotten used to it. It’s fine. Really.

I’ve come to terms that I’m not the main character in a romance movie. I’m not the svelte beauty that only needs to remove a pair of glasses to get the handsome beau. Hearts and flowers are the last things I think about when I’m huddled under the covers, alone, with my vibrating purple friend. I believe that disappointment is only being able to afford cheap batteries.  

I like my big boobs and tummy rolls, my baggy t-shirts and frizzy hair. And I wouldn’t give up my introverted personality, and my love of Star Trek, for anyone. I refuse to change who I am to appease to what’s desirable to the masses.

“Tom should’ve sent a dick pic.” I snap my fingers, my dirty mind bubbling over. “That’s what was missing in that movie.”

The bedroom door bursts open. “Pen! I heard that from across the hallway,” Franny screeches, a repulsed look plastered on her face. “I think you’re the only woman in the world who’d love to get an unsolish… unsolishttted… a dick pic.”

Franny staggers into the room with a half bottle of sparkling wine under her arm. Even drunk, she remembers to remove her slippers and align them perpendicular to the door.

“Jesus, Franny. Can’t you just kick ‘em off like everyone else?”

With unblemished skin and large blue eyes, Franny is by far the prettiest person I’ve ever seen. I used to sit and stare at her high cheekbones and pouty lips for hours. But now, all I want is to ruffle her hair, wrinkle her t-shirt, and stamp on her white trainers with a muddy boot.

El and Franny both come from money, but you wouldn’t know it. She doesn’t like to wear labels or fancy jewellery, but she loves to splash out on expensive pampering sessions at the local spa. It must be worth the price because I haven’t seen anyone with pores as tiny as hers.

“Hey, I remember you once got a dick pic from John. It never bothered you bef─.”

“Anyway.” Franny cuts me off. “Tom Hanks would never play a character that vulgar. Getting his dick out for a picture? Really, Penelope?”

“You never know. It could get him his third Oscar.” I wink.

“You completely missed the point.” Franny folds her long, slim legs beneath her and sits on the adjacent beanbag. She makes the pose look so elegant and comfortable. Yet, when I try it, I resemble a lumpy sack of spuds, and my legs go numb.

The thud of ceramic hitting carpet startles me, and I go from a languid boozer to a whirlwind of flailing arms and legs in a second. I’m like an upturned turtle, desperately trying to flip over in the blazing heat. I’d laugh at my situation if I knew El wouldn’t charge cleaning fees if I stain her carpet. Lucky for me, I find my cup poised precariously on its edge, resting against the side of the beanbag. The last splash of vivid red wine sloshing back and forth.

“Perhaps you should invest in a sippy cup?” Franny says.

“Perhaps you should invest in a sippy-cup,” I reply in a mocking, high-pitched tone.

 She rolls her eyes, then tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. She hasn’t stopped messing with it since her new highlights this morning. The style compliments the frames of her favourite pair of glasses and mollifies her obsession with being matchy-match. She picks up the small bottle of bubbly she’s just brought in from the kitchen. “El will kill us if we drink this without her.”

“But it’s only a baby bottle. Do you really want to share it?” I down the rest of my red wine in one gulp, as I don’t want to degrade the new fizz with the old flat stuff.

“I heard that, ya bastards.” El says taking us by surprise. “I wasna sleepin’. I was just restin’ mi eyes.” She slides off the bed, snatches her mug from the bedside table, then shoves the cup beneath Franny’s nose, ready for her refill. “Bloody hell. Has it finished already?” El asks as she glances over at the TV.

“Don’t worry. You didn’t miss the good stuff.” I sulk. “There wasn’t any.”

El and I share a disappointed look. The spicy stuff is where we’re kindred spirits. However, unlike me, El gets to fulfil her fantasies with boyfriends, lovers, one-night stands, and even a professor or two. Her love life is as eclectic as her wardrobe.

“Christ, Pen. What about the scene where he brings her flowers when she’s sick? Are you telling me you felt nothing in that cynical heart of yours?” Franny says, looking thoroughly heartbroken. “Who doesn’t love Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan? They were the cutest couple of the nineties.”

“Yeah, and two of the hottest,” I add. Franny’s soppy opinion sends prickles of annoyance down my spine. “That woman was pure perfection. Big blue eyes, shiny blonde hair, and a smile that could melt steel. Who wouldn’t fall for her? It’s not like she looked like… like me.”

The room falls silent. Their eyes are wide with unshed tears.

“Guys, relax. I was only joking.” Just then, my pasty white flesh catches my eye. It looks like while I was saving El’s carpet from an insignificant drop of booze, my t-shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of my tummy and my tiny pink scar.

Why are they so shocked? It’s not like they didn’t know about what happened on my blind date with Debling. They were the ones who patched me up after the fact. They can’t have forgotten about it that quickly.

“What?” I yell at them after I’m fully covered.

With a timid voice, Franny breaks the silence. “I didn’t know he left a scar.”

“It’s nothing,” I scorn. My mind is suddenly sober. “I’m over it.”

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to….” The tremble in Franny’s voice causes my temper to subside, and I lean forward and grasp her hand. They feel small, with a slightly damp chill to the tips.

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

Her clammy digits squeeze my hand as she wipes a tear from her cheek. She then takes a deep breath before asking. “Are we going to watch something else? It’s only 2 am. The night’s still young.” 

 “But what happened at the end of the last one? Did they meet up, or what?” El asks as she wanders into the bathroom, then comes back with a large wicker basket full of products. She sits crossed-legged in front of a mirror and begins rummaging through the expensive bottles of oils and creams. I smell it across the room. Divine.

El peels off her blue feather eyelashes, then uses a wipe to take off the rest of her makeup. I forgot her natural colouring was so pale. And where did those freckles come from? She picks up the DVD and reads the back. “How old is this movie? Are those chatroom thingies still around?”

“I suppose, in the deep underbelly of the Internet, you can find anything,” Franny replies while helping herself to the goodies from the basket.

“Pen, tell me I didn’t miss the sexting? No, no, not sexting. What did they call it back then?” El snaps her fingers, “Cyber-sex!”

“Ha! Can you imagine if Meg Ryan wrote an email about giving Hanksy-boy a blowy? I wouldn’t mind watching that.” I smirk. My mind beginning to wander.

“OHMYGOD! Why do you two always lower yourself to that level? They’re national treasures,” Franny says, going utterly red in the cheeks.

“Pfft, I would — absolutely — lower myself to that level,” I say under my breath.

“It’s a romance, Pen, not a porno. Don’t be such a pervert.”

“Hey!” El shouts back, severing the tension between us. “Don’t….”

“No, no.” I hold up a palm. “Franny’s right. I am a bit of a pervert. Look, if I was in that film and I was emailing strangers─” I pause. A wicked smile creeps onto my face. My heart pounds as I think about all the shenanigans my devilishly dirty mind can come up with whilst in one of those internet chatroom thingies. “Er… never mind, forget I said anything.” A sense of giddiness fizzes to the surface.

I need to leave and test out my theory.

Right now!

I nervously chew on my nails, planning my escape. I can see myself jumping out of El’s third-story window and vaulting the campus walls. But before I attempt to get up from the black hole that is this beanbag, Franny breaks the silence.

“Can we watch Titanic? You know, continue the nineties theme.” A glint of hope in her eyes.

“Nope! I need to go home and… feed the cat.” My grand exit loses some of its elegance as I hastily scramble out of the beanbag and grab my belongings.

I race out into the hallway as El’s posh southern accent blasts through the door. “But you don’t have a cat.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO

The automatic doors of Trinity Hall swing open, revealing the paved courtyard beyond. I struggle to hide my grin beneath the upturned collar of my wool coat as I hitch my backpack higher onto my shoulder and lean into the wind. Wayne, the old security guard that has worked every Saturday night since they built the university in the fifteenth century, tips his hat as I approach. He unlocks the gates with a smile and allows me to exit without the hoity-toity Trinity ID fob with its built-in calculator/taser/fidget spinner that all paying residents own.

I arrive at the black gates of my abode not five minutes later, a little breathless yet still pulsing with anticipation. Yellow Haven - Halls of Residence is advertised as the budget option for those students whose pockets run a little shallow. For me, it was my only option.

I whip out my scuffed, slightly bent keycard ─ no fancy electronic fob for me ─ and swipe at the chunky black box by the gate. This card is my third replacement this year and I’m hoping that it’ll be my last. I’ve gone and written my name across it in permanent black marker. The bastards at the reception desk charge a fiver whenever I need a new one. It’s supposed to deter people from giving them away to friends and family. Yet, I’m sure half of our small town of Grosvenor already own at least two.

I swipe another black box by the entrance to my building this time and climb five flights of stairs. Avoiding empty beer cans and shifty-looking wet patches, I finally stand behind my grey front door.

Fresh-faced first-years get prime picking at the start of a new year. They’re offered the flats at the front of the block where people on the outside can look in and have a nosey. Whereas the returning third year’s get the dodgy flats in the back, away from the prying eyes of potential students scouting for hall the following year. Mine came with three other women, who also decided not to move into the private sector for their third year, but to stay on campus.

These ladies were to become the final roommates of my student life. However, two of them left after a couple of weeks of moving in. I always thought was rather peculiar considering they were so close to finishing their degrees. Now it’s only the She-Devil and I who are the last survivors of Flat 167.

The long hallway inside my flat is empty. That’s not just from the absence of human activity, but from its lack of character. There isn’t a single window, quirky welcome mat, or even a plastic fern shoved in a corner. It’s six doors, and two florescent lights that buzz all hours of the day. Other students make their flats a home, where empty beer cans form artificial fireplaces and stolen traffic cones act as the flat’s mascot. Six months down the line, and our welcome brochure still hasn’t moved from its position off the kitchen counter.

As I tiptoe down the sterile corridor, I pass a door marked as Room A. It once belonged to a woman called Kate. Short black hair, amber eyes, and always looked tired. I wish I knew more about her, but she was gone too soon. A locked bedroom door is all that remains of that potential friendship.

Winny used to occupy Room D at the end of the hall. A divorced woman in her late thirties, she was pursuing her studies as a mature student. She said she wanted to relive her youth—her words, not mine—by living in student housing and finally completing her degree in art.

Winny left a few days before Kate.

I hurry to the door that houses a wonky brass letter B and slip my key into the lock. However, with my mind going over the relationships with my old roommates and smiling at the few happy hours we spent together, I completely forget to cushion the sound of the front door closing behind me. The sound of the bang ricochets around the empty hallway, turning my excitement into a panicky mess. But this mistake isn’t like spilling a drop of red wine on my best friend’s carpet. Hell, I would pour an entire bottle of the darkest red on Jen’s Egyptian cotton bedding before even thinking of waking Cressida in the middle of the night.

Cressida: The other last surviving flatmate and the occupier of Room C.

I hurry through my bedroom doorway, lock the deadbolt behind me, and exhale. It's only after the fifth puff do I notice my breath dancing around the room. Flinging my keys onto a small low bedside shelf—bedside tables aren’t in the building’s budget—I rush over to the window and pull back the flapping blinds.

 “Fuck me.” I shiver and slam my window shut. “Why the hell did I open a window?”

Considering Yellow Haven’s Hall of Residence is the cheapest option at Grosvenor University, the room matches the standard size for a single dorm room. Just enough space for a single bed, desk, set of drawers, wardrobe, and a pint-size ensuite. I couldn’t ask for more. The furniture is old, and the carpet is made of fibreglass. But I’m only here for another five months. I can live with it.

The small radiator clangs when I press the boost button on the wall. The stench of burning dust slowly fills my nostrils, then slowly subsides when I get used to it. Keeping my coat wrapped tightly around me, I shuffle over to my refurbished Mac desktop and awaken it from its sleep.

My first port of call is a search in good old Google.

“Are chatrooms still a thing?” An endless list of dating sites fill page after page.

Want to meet people in your area?  

Meet the love of your life with our help.

“I don’t want to meet anyone. I just want to talk dirty to them. Is that too much to ask?” My jaw aches as I clench my teeth. Was El right? Are chatrooms a thing of the past?

How to chat with people online?

I find out that groups, discords, and forums cover many topics, yet they all have limits and restrictions. I don’t bother with Instagram, because that place is all about the perfect picture.

My eyes grow dry, and I can feel the thrill is ebbing away. I finally take a shot with Free chat rooms. The first result looks promising. Yet when I enter, I’m asked to input every detail of my life, from my phone number to what I ate for breakfast. “What next, my sort code?” I blurt out.

Skipping a few dozen pages of Google, I land upon a disreputable-looking site, with nineties graphics and a few spelling mistakes on the front page. I smirk as I enter and read the quirky names of each room inside the website. They’re all devoted to different interests, kinks, and sexualities: Mum’s Playpen, Oldie but Goodie, Strap-on in, to name but a few. But it’s one in particular that catches my eye, and its name—The Smut Hut.

“What’s in a name?” I bite the inside of my cheek and stare at the box asking for a username. Something elegant, but with a hint of mystery would be perfect. This name needs to shout, bold and unafraid. A lady, but a temptress.

Chapter Text

              CHAPTER THREE

The hour is late, and I know these small amber rivers dancing around my glass will be my last tipple of the night. Concealing the lacy ruffles at the top of my fishnet stocking, I teeter on a barstool and glance into the large mirror behind the bar. Suddenly, the crowded room melts away, and a pair of blazing blue eyes meet mine. The room that once was alive with chatter and merriment grows silent.

I hold my breath as you make your way towards me. Your swagger causes people to part and let you through without question. One last step and you’re close enough that your thighs brush my crossed legs. You lean forward and whisper in my ear…

           Whosya_daddy: Banging knockers, babe!

Suddenly, the crowded bar melts away and I’m back to my reality: inside my student bedroom, alone, with nothing but a computer, a cup of tea, and a crazy hangover to keep me company.

            Lady_W: Seriously? That’s the best you can do.

            Whosya_daddy: What pleasant breasts you have?

            Lady_W: I’m not Little Red Riding Hood.   

It’s only taken me a few hours, but I think I’ve got the hang of this. Last night, I crashed too soon. I just shut my eyes for two minutes and the next thing I know, I wake up in the afternoon with my mouse mat stuck to my face—thank God it’s Sunday.

For the last few hours, I’ve been testing the waters in the Smut Hut. Pushing my inhibitions until I can do this without laughing, cringing, or suddenly becoming too shy to type. I haven’t scratched my itch just yet, and I knew it wouldn’t happen straight away, but I’m getting a little antsy here. There's hope for this guy, I guess. I mean, he hasn't forced me to use the webcam yet.

These people don't beat around the bush; they like to dive right in. Yeah, I see why they like it, but it's not for me. Turns out I'm a pretty excellent storyteller. I'm into the back-and-forth, the suspense, the tease, but not everyone here is. I don’t want to say I’m picky, but it looks like I am.

I reach for my cup of tea, only to realise a sip too late that it’s entirely undrinkable. A cold cuppa isn’t the ideal aphrodisiac to warm the cockles, so I place my cup behind my keyboard and try to forget about my caffeine addiction.

           Whosya_daddy: Come on, Sweetie. Can we do something over webcam? It’ll make things a lot easier. And quicker in my case.

I clench my hands into tight fists. “Damn it!” My knuckles turn white as my fingernails bite into my palms. “So close.”

            Whosya_daddy: Common, baby. It’ll be fun.

Another thing I’ve noticed is I hate being called Baby. It gets under my skin more than being left itchy and twitchy. It’s a sure sign that they’ve already forgotten my name, even though it’s there in black and white.

            Lady_W: Don’t you want to put in the work? Is that it?

            Whosya_daddy: Work? This shit’s easy. I type something flowery and then boom! No, I want to see you really touch yourself. Let’s do this on camera. We don’t need words. You don’t even have to show your face.

The cheek! What does he expect me to do? Sit here with a bag over my head while I diddle myself?

That stupid webcam is making everyone lazy. Soon, this place will be nothing but people streaming live, fiddling with their bits and pieces while covering their faces with cheap Halloween masks.

No, thank you.

            Whosya_daddy: You’ve never used a webcam, have you?

            Lady_W: No. It’s not my thing.

            Whosya_daddy: Give it a bash, you might like it. Just pop out a tit or two for me. I can be your guinea pig.

            Lady_W: Just use a little imagination. That’s all I’m asking. You might like it.

            Whosya_daddy: Fine. Are you able to start?

            Lady_W: Sweat beads on my skin, and I noticed your gaze following a drop trickling down my cleavage. I pick up your drink, a frosty margarita, from the bar and take a sip. The salt rim leaves small white granules on my lips. The action causes you to lick your lips and utter…

            Whosya_daddy: I’ll meet you in the toilets.

Eww!

 I push the sleeves of my pink bathrobe up to my elbows. I think we can do better.

            Lady_W: This is a beach bar. A leisurely walk along the shore, enjoying the sounds of the waves and the feel of the sand between our toes, would be far more preferable. Don’t you think?

            Whosya_daddy: Fine.

            Lady_W: I take a twenty from my purse and slap it on the bar. “What’s your name?” I ask as I take your hand and guide you out into the open air. The salty wind’s chill my skin, and my nipples pebble beneath my satin blouse.

            Whosya_daddy: I thought we’re not allowed to give out names.

I roll my eyes. I thought he knew how this stuff works.

            Lady_W: No, your “name”.

            Whosya_daddy: Oh, Lance Maximus Thunder, but you can call me Rumble.

            Lady_W: All right, Rumble. Do you come here often?

            Whosya_daddy: Every other Thursday when the wife goes to bingo.

I recoiled inwardly, feeling a profound sense of disgust as I stare at his reply. “Wife, huh?” My cursor hovering over the button to exit this private chat. I don’t want to talk to the married ones, but I don’t want to waste the opportunity either. I mean, I might have already spoken to a married one and not have known. They don’t have to tell the truth. Hell, that’s precisely what I’m not doing.

I glanced at my phone to see what time it was. Bloody hell, where’s the day gone? Better make this my last chat. I’ll try again another day.

            Whosya_daddy: So, when can I take your kit off?

            Lady_W: We stroll towards the water’s edge. The fine spray from the waves crashing on nearby rocks dampening our clothes at the same time the heavens open. We run, seeking shelter so we don’t catch our deaths.

            Whosya_daddy: I see a cave and pull you towards it.

            Lady_W: Yellowish stalactites hang from the ceiling dripping freezing water onto the slippery floor. I grab onto your shoulders, as I’m worried that my high heels will falter and cause me to slip into the belly of the cavern beyond. Your eyes glow in the moonlight and I’m lost as I stare into them. “Kiss me?” I ask.

            Whosya_daddy: One more thing before we start. Can you be a blonde with big tits? I like big tits. The bigger, the better.

            Lady_W: Fine.

            Whosya_daddy: Oh, and can I have a tattoo? The wife won’t let me have one.

The nausea returns when I see the word “wife”. If he mentions he’s got a wife one more time, I’m going to….

            Whosya_daddy: I kiss you.

“It’s about fucking time,” I mumble.

            Lady_W: Where?

            Whosya_daddy: In the forest.

            Lady_W: I meant where on my body. Plus, we’re in a cave on the beach, remember?

            Whosya_daddy: I kiss your lips, and I’ve got sand in my shoes.

            Lady_W: Take them off.

            Whosya_daddy: I take off my shoes and all your clothes at the same time.

            Lady_W: I shiver as you expose my hot, naked skin to the night air. I can almost hear the skin on my back sizzle as it touches the freezing stone walls behind me.

            Whosya_daddy: Now bend over!

            Lady_W: But wouldn’t you like to admire my bountiful bosom?

            Whosya_daddy: Babe, I’m too close. I don’t think I can last much longer.

            Lady_W: But what about me?

            Whosya_daddy: I suck your nipple. You like it. Now I impale you with my fifteen-inch Jimmywang.

            Lady_W: Oh, my. You’re so big.

            Whosya_daddy: Yeah, I am! Now, I’m going to put it in your butt.

            Lady_W: My petite bootie is waiting.

            Whosya_daddy: I smack it so hard that it leaves a handprint.

            Lady_W: Ouch.

            Whosya_daddy: You like that?

            Lady_W: Yes. Very much.

            Whosya_daddy: I smack it again.

            Lady_W: I press my bum against the cold stone to ease the pain. 

            Whosya_daddy: No! I want to fuck you in the ass. Turn around.

            Lady_W: But when is it my turn?

            Whosya_daddy: Oh, fuck this! This is too much hard work. You need to try getting some real dick once in a while. You might find it more satisfying than writing this bullshit. And it’s quicker.

            Lady_W: Then, why are you here?

            Whosya_daddy: The wife took the car and my credit card.

I shove my keyboard, knocking over my half-full mug of ice-cold tea. It splatters onto the monitor and puddles on the desk. I stand to avoid a few drips tumbling off the edge, and as I do, the back of my legs push the chair across the room. It smashes into the wall with a clatter. The noise seems deafening after sitting in silence for hours.

Five steps are all it takes for me to walk the length of my tiny room. “Bullshit? Bullshit? He thinks details are bullshit. It’s called roleplaying, you bellend!”

Pausing, I glare at my desk and monitor, now drenched in cold beige liquid. Grasping the corner of my bathrobe in a tight fist, I soak up the remaining tea my mouse mat hasn’t already swallowed up. I hope I haven’t turned my computer into something as useful as a giant paperweight. I can just imagine explaining the situation to my parents.

“Mum. Dad. I need a new computer. Why you ask? Well, I was just talking dirty to a fella I met in a dingy online chatroom. This stranger basically called me a prude because I wouldn’t get my tits out on camera. Long story short, I had a little paddy and spilt my tea all over my Mac. Please, can I have some money to buy another one?”

Suddenly, my phone springs to life with a delicate chime.

            El: You’re never going to believe who I just pulled?

            Pen: Was it the Theo guy in the flat above? The one that you haven’t stopped talking about since you “accidentally” took a pair of his undies from the dryer in the laundry room?

            El: Bingo! Pen, he took me to places you wouldn’t believe. At one point, I was walking on the ceiling… literally. I don’t even know how I got up there. But…

            Pen: Oh, here it comes.

            El: He pretended he wasn’t with me when we were spotted together in town. I think it might have been my pink leopard print fur coat that embarrassed him a little in front of his friends.

A chill runs over my skin when I take off my beloved cocoon of warmth and throw the soggy mess onto an overflowing laundry basket in the corner. I pull the chair back over to the desk and slump down on it, allowing the momentum to spin me in circles before it comes to a complete stop. The cheap plastic creaks as it bends to my weight. Thanks, chair, but I don’t need the reminder.

            Pen: But that’s your favourite. I hope you’re not going to throw out that coat because of him.

            El: Don’t be daft. My white whale is still out there. If he can’t handle that coat, how is he going to handle my rubber glove raincoat?

Closing my eyes, I nibble the nail of my middle finger—an old habit I can’t seem to break. And as I sit here, I visualise my community of faceless strangers all bobbing along in a sea of sleaze and fornication. And there in the distance is my own white whale.

A smile crosses my face, and I place my steady fingers back on the keys. Meeting a few dickheads isn’t the end of the world, I suppose. I can always move on to someone else.

The intoxicating promise of something naughty and new comes back to arouse me. A plethora of potential partners await a new plaything, and I can’t disappoint them.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR

The Smut Hut’s shameless red backdrop advises its guests that this place isn’t for the faint of heart. Warnings flash across the screen urging people to not ask for real names and be cautious about giving out personal information like email addresses and phone numbers. I roll my eyes at their trivial advice and type my message in the main chat lobby. Within the first thirty seconds of announcing my impatient desire to be plundered until my toes curl, I receive a record-breaking number of private messages. One of these includes a colourful advertisement asking me to Click here if you want to enlarge your penis TODAY.

I know I can’t hide the disappointment in my face when I read each one of their brief opening one-liners. Some are slightly decent, while others use flattery that’s only successful in prisons. The promise I made myself of some stimulating roleplay after last night’s fiasco is slowing ebbing away. It’s amazing how twelve hours in the real world, doing mundane activities can changes one’s optimism.  

I scroll back and forth through the names at the side of the chat, wondering how they found this site. Were they wandering souls looking for something different to occupy their time? Or did they just get lost?

I pass two of Smut Hut’s regulars ─ MrPantyLover, and Heavycummer2000.

Then there’s my least imaginative kind of username.

Perv2Perv

Perv4Perv

Pervyhung37

PervNextDoor

They’re all talk. They believe if they put the word “pervert” or “perv” in their name they appear edgier, when in reality it’s usually someone who’s read Fifty Shades too many times, and thinks a smack on the bottom is enough for a membership to their local sex dungeon.

In my short time here, I’ve discovered I prefer subtlety in usernames; These are people with a refined vocabulary regardless of taste.

AToxicFriendship

TheBeardedBard

But it’s One_Trek_Mind that catches my eye tonight. I glance over at the small selection of posters covering my walls — Back to the Future, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Star Trek. Is his use of the word Trek an indication that I’ve found a fellow nerd, or is he a wanderer that likes to travel? Let’s find out.

            Lady_W: I make my way to the bridge from the Holodeck. It’s strange walking down a 24th-century hallway after spending five hours playing chess with Albert Einstein in the 1920s.

The doors of the turbo lift open to a darkened bridge. The alarm has been silenced, but the red light still bounces around the room, reflecting off the consoles and chairs. “Hello?” I call out to what I believe is an empty room.

            I bite my nails as I wait for a reply. They’re taking a lot longer than the previous candidate last night did, but then again, “banging knockers, babe” doesn’t take too long to type.

            One_Trek_Mind: Captain! Thank God you’re here. I triggered the red alert, hoping there was someone else on board, but it looks like we’re the only two souls left alive.

A small ping of excitement bubbles up from the pit of my stomach at this stranger’s chutzpah. I sit a little taller in my chair and type away.

            Lady_W: Do you always keep sitting in the captain’s chair when I walk in? We’re in the middle of a crisis, but I’d still prefer some professionalism around here.

            One_Trek_Mind: “Yes, ma’am”. I stand and shift to the centre of the room. The bulge in my loose grey sweatpants is making the movement difficult. “I-I was asleep when I heard the commotion. I’m sorry, but I didn’t have time to change.” 

            Lady_W: “I thought as much.” My eyes run down the length of your naked torso and land on the region of your slightly tented pants. “I didn’t know an erection was part of the uniform.”

            One_Trek_Mind: “Sorry, ma’am. It won’t go down. I-I may need a hand to disarm it.”

            Lady_W: “I don’t take orders, Crewman. I give them. Drop those non regulation slacks now, mister.”

            One_Trek_Mind: “Yes, ma’am.” I swiftly pull down my trousers, revealing a hard-on shrouded in a pair of Star Wars-themed boxer shorts. My cheeks grow pink, but my stance stays rigid as I watch you walk towards me. I’ve dreamt of this moment. You ─The captain. Me ─A Cadet, alone on the bridge of the USS Arousal.

            Lady_W: I kneel and yank down your underwear. The sudden jerk has you stumbling, but you quickly regain your footing. You look down at me with a slight smirk and a wink. “Eyes front,” I order.

            One_Trek_Mind: I can feel your eyes bore into the underside of my jaw as you slip the tip of me into your mouth. Then you take me deeper until I hit the back of your throat, which makes you gag. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

            Lady_W: A tear rolls down my cheek as I grab hold of your hips, firmly denying your attempts to pull away.

            One_Trek_Mind: “But Captain. What about the crew? Are they still alive?”

            Lady_W: I pull your cock free with a satisfying pop. “Did I permit you to speak?”

            One_Trek_Mind: I shake my head.

            Lady_W: “If you must know, I sent them all off on an away mission. The entire crew. Even the janitors and tubolift luber have joined them. You mustn’t have got the communique.” I blow on the tip of your penis. The warm air turns chilly, which makes you shudder.

            One_Trek_Mind: “But don’t we need at least a skeleton crew on board?”

            Lady_W: I stand and place my hands on my hips. “Are you questioning my orders?”

            One_Trek_Mind: “I wouldn’t dream of it. But…”

            Lady_W: “Well, spit it out.”

            One_Trek_Mind: “May I act freely?”

            Lady_W: I take an enormous sigh. “If you must.”

            One_Trek_Mind: I reach for the zip at your neck and slowly lower it to your middle, peeling you out of your commanding straitjacket. A black bra peeks out beneath the dull red and black fabric of your uniform. The shift from cotton to lace changes your demeanour from authoritative to lascivious. And it’s only when your uniform pools around your feet can I see you in your full glory.

The matching bottoms might be my favourite. They’re made of a single wisp of French lace that seems to melt into your skin. It’s crazy to think that this is what you wear every day. Hiding beneath something so proper. You devour my attention, and I can’t look away.

I’m completely agog by what this man has said to me. I was only hoping for a little excitement, at least something more than last night. Even if he simply remembered my name would’ve been a tremendous bonus. But he’s taken me to the stars and beyond in such a short amount of time. I wasn’t aware a conversation could be like this.

            Lady_W: The hypnotic cadence of your breathing both sooths and excites me. I press my body against yours and feel your erection jab into my abdomen. It’s scorching and still wet from my mouth. I reach down and rub the spit into your skin because I know we don’t need the extra lubrication for what’s to come. I’m wet enough.

My fingers shake as they hover over the keyboard. One of my legs bounces uncontrollably under my desk, and I nibble one of my nails. “Have I gone too far?” I whisper under my breath.

Five minutes later, and still no response. “Shit,” I say as my body deflates, and the creek in my chair groans louder than ever. Refusing to let our explicit conversation go, I reread the suggestive messages, each sentence a thrilling reminder of our passionate, yet nerdy exchange. I’m halfway through when the text jumps to the end of the chat log. A new incoming message appears.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m sorry, but I’ve just had a bit of a rough phone call. Do you mind if we call it a day? Same time tomorrow?

            Lady_W: You know where to find me.

A part of me knows he’s not coming back. This will be a onetime thing no matter how depressing that thought is. There are just too many choices here. Why stick with the same person? There are plenty of people willing and able to be One_Trek_Mind’s next plaything. I just wish I could say the same about me.

My mouth suddenly feels parched, so I don an old hoodie over my t-shirt and tiptoe into the kitchen.

I’m about to pour the last droplet of milk into my cuppa when the kitchen door flies open, the door handle surely denting the plaster behind it.

There goes the rest of my security.

A figure with multiple arms and legs stumbles through the doorway. It’s dripping with leather fringe and chains that jingle as it moves. The dim light from the hallway and a streetlamp outside cast an eerie glow on the silhouette, making it look like something from a black and white monster movie. The sight has me stumbling backwards into the shadows, and my heart is in my throat.

This thing isn’t Cressida. It can’t be. The Cressida I know is into petite designer handbags and pink French manicures. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of ripped jeans and a heavy-metal t-shirt.

“Oh, sorry, Penelope. For once, I couldn’t see you.” Cressida’s voice hits me hard in the gut. Why couldn’t it have been the Creature from the Black Lagoon? It would have been kinder to me. “No salad tonight? Pity,” she continues and tries to hide her giggle in the crook of the neck of her latest squeeze.

“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath. “No, it’s just a cup of tea,” I say louder this time, plastering a fake smile on my face. I’ll do anything to keep the peace.

“We’re just heading off to Othello’s in town. Aren’t we, babe?” A muffled reply leaks from her cleavage, but its cut short when she pushes his head further down into the ravine. The man coughs and splutters, but then continues devouring her body, one hickey at a time.

My eyes go back and forth from Cressida to the door. The pair slowly moves towards the flimsy blue sofa in the corner of the living room. Neither one releases their hold on the other. Even when Cressida drops her heavy handbag by the door, the sound doesn’t startle them apart. They bump and slither across the walls, scraping their studded jackets across the magnolia paint as they go. They collapse on the sofa, all giggles and moans.

It is time for my escape.

With my teacup shaking slightly in one hand, I crept to the door, my other hand outstretched, searching for the icy, metallic feel of the doorhandle.

“Home alone?” Cressida spits.

I stumble over my words and say the first thing that springs to mind. “Erm, I’m in the middle of getting ready. I-I have a date.”

The most unladylike cackle bursts out of Cressida’s gob, even distracting lover-boy for a few seconds. “A date?” she spits after catching her breath, “With you?”

“But isn’t she also a…” the man says just as Cressida stuffs his face back into her cleavage before he can utter another word.

“I-I have to get ready.” I smile and excuse myself, but before the door closes, the contents of Cressida’s spilt bag catch my eye. There is a massive set of keys, four white keycards with stickers on them, and a small black book wrapped in an elastic band—scraps of paper and card protrude between its pages. Despite my overwhelming desire to escape, an insatiable curiosity propels in a different direction; I have to see the contents of her bag, no matter the cost. I kneel and lift the flap of her bag with my pinkie and take a peek at what’s left inside, and what hides at the bottom has me stunned. A wallet bursting to the seams with twenty-pound notes.

Cressida’s familiar cackle causes me to jerk my hand away and I stumble back to my feet. Lucky for me, she didn’t notice my snooping, otherwise I’d be eating the floor.

Once settled in bed, all safe and warm, I sip my tea and ponder. The money and that little black book dance in front of my mind. It reminds me of one of my sketchbooks, only smaller. No, it was more like an old address book similar to what my Gran used to use before mum bought her first mobile phone.

And where are those keycards for? They look similar to ours but had some kind of a sticker with a logo on them.

Suddenly, an out-of-tune drunken love song drift in from outside. Its sentiment is endearing that is until a distraught female voice kills the moment. “Don’t you dare try that with me. You shagged her in the bogs, didn’t you?” The female voice wails between sobs.

Knowing this love spat will continue until the wee hours of the morning, I put my half empty cup on the little shelf by my bed, hunt for my earplugs and once more replay the conversation with One_Trek_Mind until my eyes drift shut.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE

Today has been one of those days. My printouts were wonky, my critiques were poor, and to top it off the only vending machine in the entire building was on the blink. I haven’t had a day like this since… well, I don’t want to think about that day.

Exiting uni the sight of darkness takes me by surprise, not having seen daylight since yesterday. The air is thick with humidity, and a single grey cloud looms over our small town. That cloud was there this morning, waiting for me like a bully after school, spitting out a warning to bring a brolly for later. Unfortunately my giant leather portfolio and toolbox stuffed with art supplies take up both hands, so unless I wanted to grow one out the top of my head like Inspector Gadget then I’ll have to settle with just my coat.

It’s only a ten-minute walk back to my flat, but as I’d predicted when I saw it, that cloud unleashes a tidal wave in the first two. My short wool coat with no hood is no help, and it doesn’t take long before I’m completely soaked to the bone. I’ve paired it with too-long-in-the-leg jeans, resulting in icy rainwater creeping up the denim and seeping into every crevice I have. At least I’m on my way home because the thought of sitting in soggy knickers for twelve hours has me shuddering.

Grand gushes of rainwater from clogged guttering welcome me home. Kathy once called these wonders, Grosvenor’s Trevi fountain. I call them, Grosvenor’s home of dysentery. Once inside I take a detour and head straight for the kitchen. A spot of hot tea is what I need to begin the thawing process and unblock my stuffy nose. A shower can wait.

I wrap my hand around the handle and casually glance through the glass panel in the living room door. The profile of a large middle-aged man halts my steps. Sitting edge of our sofa, he cradles a tatty flat cap in his dirty hands. His long brown trench coat hides the rest of his clothing except for his boots. Huge clodhoppers with soles at least two inches thick and caked in mud.

Even from this distance I can see that his bloodshot eyes roam around our kitchen, carefully studying the area as if he’s scheming a heist. This guy is making me uneasy, so I'm staying clear.  Besides, we don't have anything worth taking. I scarper to my room, softly close the door, and then double lock the deadbolt.

 “Fife! He’s in here.” The commanding voice of my flatmate assaults my ear as I press the side of my face against the wood. “This one couldn’t handle it. It’ll be a while before he comes back,” Cressida continues.

After hearing one low grunt and then the closing of the front door, my curiosity gets the better of me and I take a peek. Both Cressida and the man are gone. No signs of a struggle, a robbery, or rampant lovemaking to be seen. I’ll hold off going into the kitchen for a while, just in case they return.

A little relieved that I don’t have to offer Cressida’s friend a courtesy cuppa, I close the door and drop my wet belongings onto my bathroom floor, the lino saving my carpet from the slowly expanding puddle beneath my feet. My nose is now blocked completely, and my fingers feel like they might snap off any minute.

Heavy wet denim clings to my mottled pink and white fleshy thighs when I struggle to pull myself free from my jeans. I feel like Houdini working my way free from a straitjacket. With no patience left in me, I yank my t-shirt and jumper off simultaneously but catch one of my stud earrings in the chunky wool knit. “Shit,” I cry as I check for blood.

Covering my hefty bare boobs with a bent arm I stumble into the shower, graceful as ever. The slightly heated water brings back the feeling to my extremities, as my mind thaws.

So… who was that man?

I don’t remember Cressida ever having family over, and he certainly doesn’t look like the type she usually dates. But then again, I don’t think I could put a finger on the type of people she usually dates. Yesterday she was with an Alice Cooper wannabe, but over the months I’ve seen her with spry clean-cut office types, too. They’ve been blonde, brunette, redheads. Tall, short, overweight, slim. The only matching characteristic between the lot of them is being overly coy.

That stranger is a person people wouldn’t want to talk to. People would cross the street if they saw him coming, and they would be the first to apologise if he bumped into them. He isn’t the type of person someone would mess with, and I don’t believe Cressida would either.

I’m about to lather up my orange shower puff when the water turns from bearable to bullet-nipple-brisk. Well, at least I can breathe through my nose again.

Stepping into my freezing bedroom, a smell hits me. One that I didn’t notice before. A scent that isn’t allowed in a non-smoking flat. I put my nose to the door, but the scent of tobacco isn’t as strong over here. A blast of cold wet air hits my naked shoulders as I open the window and twist my head to peek into the windows of my neighbours. Looking and listening for signs of fire or panic.

Nothing.

While a building fire is a terrible thing, there is one small, albeit morbid, upside: I would at least be warm.

I grab my bathrobe off my laundry pile and spray some perfume into the air to mask the putrid smell. All day, the thought of a bit of naughty chat has spurred me on. I don’t have anything on my timetable for tomorrow morning. I can chat for hours.

I log on to find a name. Only one name will do. However, before getting to the Cs on the endless list at the side of the chat, a private message pops up.

            One_Trek_Mind: Hello, again.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX

My eyes grow wide when I read this familiar name. I attempt to shrug off the memory of the dream I had last night following our conversation; A faceless stranger in a Starfleet uniform getting spicy with me on the platform in the transporter room. Even now, I can still feel the cool glass beneath us as he presses me harder onto the transporter bays.

I’ll never watch that show the same way again.

            One_Trek_Mind: You took me by surprise yesterday.

            Lady_W: Did I? How so?

            One_Trek_Mind: People don’t talk like that on here. They describe what they’re doing, where they want to be touched, or if they’re about to cum or not. I’ve seen no one set a scene and hand out character traits. You might as well have given me stage directions.

            Lady_W: You weren’t too bad yourself. I’m surprised; I usually get complaints when I want to talk like that. A part of me was expecting some criticism. “Lay off the descriptors”, “Change this_to this_”, “Hurry!” That kind of thing. You didn’t complain once.

            One_Trek_Mind: Damn right I didn’t complain. That was the best I’ve had without finishing. Well, not until later that night.

“Later?” Do I ask if that later involves another person? I shake my head, attempting to banish the thought from my mind and discourage it from taking root.

            Lady_W: You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You were involved as much as I was. I’ll tip my hat to you, sir.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m honoured. I hope we can do it more often.

            Lady_W: No one has ever asked me to do a repeat performance.

            One_Trek_Mind: Well, I’m asking. Just gimme a chance, coach.

With my chin resting in my palm, I find myself staring intently at the cursor's rhythmic blink. I don’t know why I’m thinking so hard about it. He is, without a doubt, the most skilled and effective partner I have ever played with. I can't say no to something like that!

            One_Trek_Mind: Do you mind if I know something personal about you?

            Lady_W: Yes, I mind. We’re not supposed to exchange personal details.

            One_Trek_Mind: That’s understandable, but I’m not asking for your address or phone number.

            Lady_W: But I can be anyone you want me to be. I’m not a captain of a starship, and that doesn’t bother you. Why does it matter?

            One_Trek_Mind: Honestly… I don’t know why. I suppose it shouldn’t. I can’t tell if you’re going to lie or not. It’s just… I’m a curious person.

My mind falls back to playing detective with Cressida and the man in the kitchen. I suppose I can relate to his inquisitive tendencies. I lean back in my chair and mull it over for a few seconds, tapping a finger on my pursed lips.

            Lady_W: I’m a student.

There I did it. I let something out.

Seeing the word “student” written here feels so alien. A part of me sits with bated breath, waiting for a knock on the door or for my phone to ring. I always thought if I gave anything away, then whoever I’ve been talking to will surely find me.

I choke back a laugh and relax in my seat; the tension leaking out of my shoulders. Perhaps admitting a little something about myself isn’t as bad as I once thought. However, I’m not naïve, and I’m certainly not overreacting. There are other ways I can protect my privacy. I don’t have to be a third-year graphic designer. Perhaps I am a first-year dance student. Youthful and flexible.

            One_Trek_Mind: Do you like being a student?

            Lady_W: Yeah, but the hours drag on.

            One_Trek_Mind: I hear you. I would spend hours in the library during my three-year stretch. It would be the same people there every night, typing away on their laptops, hidden behind mountains of books stacked high on their desks. I’m surprised they didn’t topple over and bury them alive.

            Lady_W: It’s such a danger zone. I once found an old table with an inscription carved into it. “Lee was here 1976. Died looking for Trainspotting monthly.” The poor lost soul.

I take a small sip of water from a left-over bottle hidden behind my monitor.

            One_Trek_Mind: What are you wearing?

I spray my screen with a mist of spit water, and then I choke on the rest. Talk about taking me off guard, and with such a straightforward question, too. I can’t believe I wasn’t prepared. I’m always prepared.  

I dab my mouth, then wipe my screen with my sleeve. Nobody surprises me like that and gets away with it, I ponder with a smile. I crack my knuckles over the keyboard and look down at my tea-stained bathrobe ─ the one I haven’t had time to wash in an embarrassingly long time. Perhaps not.

            Lady_W: A pair of blue jeans and a pink bubble-gum t-shirt with “I heart pegging” written across the boobage area in bold red lettering.

            One_Trek_Mind: Sounds intriguing.

            Lady_W: What about you?

            One_Trek_Mind: Nothing as colourful, unfortunately. I’m still in my blue shirt and tie from work, and I have three ball-point pens in my left breast pocket. I have a blue, a black, and a red. The red is my favourite; I call her The Countess. It has a scantily clad lady on the side that reveals her naughty bits when turned upside down. I wait for the kids to be out of the room when using that one.

“Kids, huh?” I take a deep breath, and a crease forms on my brow.

            Lady_W: Kids, huh?

            One_Trek_Mind: Yes. Thirty of them.

I shake my head and laugh.

            Lady_W: What subject do you teach?

            One_Trek_Mind: You guessed it. I teach Geography .

            One_Trek_Mind: But please, let’s not talk about that. I’ve been marking tests for hours and I can’t spend another second thinking about tropical ecosystems and soil erosion.

            Lady_W: I can help you there. Just give me a moment.

            Lady_W: I stroll over to your side of the desk, perches myself sideways on your lap, but then jump slightly upon feeling the bulge in your pants pressing against my outer thigh. But I play it off, act nonchalant, and look over your desk. Aha, there she is. The lady herself.

            Lady_W: With the Countess in hand, I hold it up to the light, and sure enough, that red and white spotted bikini disappears when I turn it upside down. If only undressing was that easy.

            Lady_W: I place the pen delicately back on your desk, then fiddle with your tie, weaving its threads between my fingers until it knots around my fist. Then, with a quick jerk, I pull you towards me.

            Lady_W: Chest to chest, I can feel your heartbeat next to mine. It’s fast, but I think mine’s faster.

            One_Trek_Mind: Why do I suddenly smell cherries?

            Lady_W: That’s my lip balm.

            Lady_W: I inch closer and trace your bottom lip with my tongue. A slight hint of peppermint permeates the scent of cherries. Your breath, though staggered, is warm and inviting. I almost salivate when your pink tongue darts out and licks where my tongue was only a moment ago.

            Lady_W: Twisting my fingers into your silky locks, I pull you the rest of the way until our lips finally touch in the barest of kisses. We y move. We barely breathe.

            Lady_W: I need to see the heat in your eyes, if you burn for me as I do for you. I pull away to look and take that chance.

            Lady_W: I see it.

            Lady_W: I crash my mouth onto yours. The tentative strokes of your tongue are almost virginal. With every movement, you hold yourself at bay, asking permission to touch. To savour.

            Lady_W: I’m giving you that permission. I want you to feel every inch of me. To remember the taste of my skin. Believe me, I want this just as badly, if not more.

Within the space of ten minutes, I’ve gone from mild hypothermia to Satan’s sauna buddy. I loosen the belt of my dressing gown and flap the collar.

            Lady_W: We both gasp for air when I pull away, but only for a second as I draw a wet trail down your throat. I kiss and suckle, marking your skin with small pink dots.

            Lady_W: As I unbutton your collar, the heat from your body hits me hard. A day’s perspiration mixed with hours old aftershave and chalk dust causing me to liquefy in your arms.

            One_Trek_Mind: Lifting you, I place your peachy rear on the icy surface of my desk. I push pens and paper aside, making you more comfortable on the mahogany wood. “Looks like I’ll be wearing a scarf for the next few days,” I say as drag a finger over the tender spots on my neck.

            One_Trek_Mind: What subject do you study?

            I hesitate before typing.

            Lady_W: Graphic Design

            One_Trek_Mind: I pull away and lift your t-shirt, but pause and study the design instead. I smile as I recall your brief description of it. Silly old me pictured something one would buy at the local student gift shop. Not this incredible feat of design. The typography sweeps around your cleavage, accentuating your curvaceous figure. The dot of the lowercase “i” is perfectly placed where a nipple should be. “Did you design this? I’ve seen nothing like it before.”

            Lady_W: Yes, I did. But don’t worry, I’ve made it in five other colours and have the designs saved on my computer if I need any more.

            One_Trek_Mind: “You already know what I’m doing to do.” Grabbing the collar of your shirt, I rip it down the centre. A slight hint of guilt mars my brow, but you brush it away with the pad of your thumb.

            One_Trek_Mind: Your bra covered breasts rise and fall with each gasp you take, but it’s the shiny brass button on your jeans that grabs my attention. Spreading your legs apart, I shift my body between them, and with trembling fingers, unhook the button and pull down the zip.

The pulse between my legs is more apparent and I twitch in my seat, causing my chair to make that annoying squeak again. I’m not ready to finish this but I wish I could tell my body that fact. I cross my feet at the ankles, hoping that will dull this throbbing.

            One_Trek_Mind: Taking a knee, I slowly peel away those tight cumbersome jeans. Your thighs are plump and juicy and when my lips meet your inner thigh, you unleash an adorable little giggle that makes me want to laugh, too. I throw the unwanted denim over my shoulder, uncaring if they go under a bookshelf or out the bloody window.

My robe flops open, and I slowly slide my hand down towards my tingly bits. The image he’s portraying is the most vivid and the most personal I’ve ever experienced in this chatroom. Using my natural lubrication to ease a finger in, I gasp when I feel the pulsating around my fingers.

            One_Trek_Mind: I jerk your underwear to one side and see you for the first time. I stick out my tongue and taste your flavour while inhaling your arousing perfume. “This is so much better than marking tests.” The vibrations of my voice settle over you.

I slowly type with one hand, my other now fully preoccupied. The familiar quiver builds within me, that energy that I know so well. I’ve never climaxed this quickly before. I didn’t think it was even possible.

            Lady_W: I open myself more by placing a foot on top of the table. The telltale tingle at the base of my spine is pulling me over the precipice and now all I can see are bright colours and stars at the backs of my eyes. I grab a fist full of your hair and pull you harder against me. The rough abrasion of your nightly stubble is uncomfortable, yet wonderfully erotic.

            Lady_W: The more you bury your mouth into me, the tender my flesh becomes. Every lick is more intense than the next, and I just know the end is coming.

            Lady_W: Suddenly, your mouth is gone, and all that’s left is a cool breeze blowing in from a nearby window. Was it all just a dream?

            Lady_W: I open my eyes, and all I can see is your face staring down at me. A shiny glisten across your brow. My hand rises to caress your cheek. I can tell you want this to be about me, to give me pleasure. But you’re wrong. This night is about the both of us.

            Lady_W: I slowly unzip your trousers, the soft cotton fabric making the motion almost silent. Then, without warning, your cock springs free between the gap, unconstrained by underwear. Grasping you in a soft yet firm hold, I jerk you towards me. And, after only a moment of my hesitation, you answer my unspoken question with a simple nod.

“I suggest going easier on the little guy in the future.” A gruff voice shouts from down the hallway. I instantly cover my monitor with both hands and stare wide-eyed at my bedroom door.

“That’s not what he asked for,” Cressida’s voice replies. I let out a breath when I realise that they’re not talking to me, and that I’m still safe behind my locked bedroom door. I drop my hands, then read the reply that One_Trek_Mind has left for me.

            One_Trek_Mind: You pull me until the tip of my cock brushes your entrance, and that’s when you paint yourself with your moisture.

“Then get better at doing it,” the stranger yells once again. His voice is so gravelly and loud that the pencils on my desk rattle. I dive onto the floor and peer beneath the narrow gap under my bedroom door, my curiosity itching my already twitchy body. The blue carpet scrapes the skin on my cheek, and I hiss as I press my face harder onto the rough fibres.

As two pairs of shoes pass by my door, the bright lights of the hallway flutter. The dissimilarities between the pairs are almost comical. “Keep your fucking voice down. I still have one roommate left, remember?” Cressida’s voice is anything but dainty. “I’ll call if I need anything else.”

The front door slams shut without a reply, and Cressida turns and walks back to her room.

“Definitely not a lover,” I say under my breath as I sit back on my haunches. “Whoa!” I say as I glance back at the conversation that’s happening without me.

            One_Trek_Mind: I slip the tip of my cock inside you, and I almost buckle at the knee. Your warm centre calls me home and as I plunge further into you; you wrap your arms around me.

            One_Trek_Mind: You fall back, and pull me in, nestling me into the cruck of your neck. The slight scent of lilies coats your skin. Clean and warm.

            One_Trek_Mind: I pull out, then sink back in, slow and steady. I can feel the tip of me touch your cervix, the barrier barring me from your womb. I pull out again, but this time I plunge back in with added force, and the change in pressure has you clutching my shoulders tighter.

            One_Trek_Mind: You moan in my ear indiscernible words that only appear during moments of utter pleasure. Oh, how I would love to hear my real name on the tip of your tongue.

            One_Trek_Mind: Your pupils dilate, and your skin turns a delightful shade of pink. The breathy cry of your orgasm fills the room, and you collapse on the table, a puddle of spent deliciousness.

            One_Trek_Mind: Christ, I would kill to know the colour of your skin when you become flush with passion.

            One_Trek_Mind: I would love to know if the colour of your eyes is so dark that they look like voids into your soul. Or are they blue? An alluring aqua that mimics the tropical shores around the coral reef.

            One_Trek_Mind: I want to know how long your legs are when they wrap around me.

            One_Trek_Mind: I want to know the shade of your nipples when I suck on them. Do they darken when they get hard?

            One_Trek_Mind: I need to know the beauty that I’m imagining is true.

            One_Trek_Mind: Please end my suffering.

Those fuzzies that usually whirl through me at moments like this flush out in one giant whoosh, and a familiar bitterness collects in my mouth. As his inevitable words take me by surprise, I deflate in my chair.

“We gotta play by the rules. What if he’s dangerous, and this is his way in?”

I look into the heavens for a diversion, to push us into the next stage of our roleplaying, anything to take us away from his inquiring mind. Yet, I can’t seem to grab onto any form of inspiration. All I see in the back of my mind are his hands on me. His tongue on my breast. His cock in my…

Sitting back in my chair, I let my hands slowly slide off my desk. They land haphazardly on my lap, pale and lifeless. I re-read our lengthy dialogue, debating with myself if I should count my losses and leave this conversation, or stay put and reach the heavens. By the time I’m finished, I’m more aroused than ever. Yet, that uncertainty is still there, although, this time, it comes with the sensation of losing one’s feet when tripping over a curb. I don’t want to leave this one. He’s a keeper.

But distance is what I sought from the beginning, right? Faceless strangers are what I’ve desired from the start. Why doesn’t this guy just do the same thing? Why does he think I’m special enough to break the rules for?

I stand and take a turn about the room. My thoughts diverted from my usual avenues to a place where I never thought I would go. “What would happen if I told him something personal?” The absurdity of it all makes me laugh. “I suppose I would start easy and ask him if he likes thighs that jiggle, or should I tell him about my bright red hair?”

I throw my hands in the air and stomp back to my chair. “So, what if he’s not attracted to the real me? I mean, would it matter? All it takes is the click of a button and he’s gone forever.” I being to bite my nails. “Even if he isn’t happy with what I tell him, we’re never going to meet in person.”

            One_Trek_Mind: Are you there?

“I don’t care,” Cressida shouts, her clipped tone penetrating my paper-thin walls. “You said thirty-five per cent. That’s what we agreed on.” A loud crash rips me out of my decision making and I run straight into the kitchen, where I come face to face with a seething Cressida talking on the phone.

“Don’t say a word,” she points at me as she hangs up the call. “I’ll get mine.” She elbows past and walks back into her bedroom, her kitten heels clicking all the way. It’s only when she slams the door behind her do I notice the broken fragments of white plastic and the remains of our kettle littering the kitchen floor.

“What the fuck?” I say as Cressida barges back into the room. A shiny red and gold contraption tucked underneath her arm, the black cord swinging wildly. “Don’t break it. That one costs more than your life.” She slams the new kettle down onto the counter and stomps back into her room. Just before the door shuts, I think to ask about the mess, then decided not to. I’ve no time for an argument. I have someone waiting for me.

I sweep up the debris, throw everything out, and race back into my room. However, when I finally sit down at my desk, I realise I’m too late. A message in red is the only thing left.

            One_Trek_Mind: Has left the chat.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN

Trendy kiosks with their neon signage surround the lower level of the student union. Hordes of empty plastic chairs are strewn haphazardly after the lunchtime rush, tables overflowing with cold leftovers and crumpled paper wrappers.

“Should’ve gotten here earlier if you wanted a Robert Brownie Jr. It’s the first thing we sell out off,” a slender man in a very fetching green hairnet and matching apron tells us. His voice is monotone, like he’s already said it a million times today. He points to the menu pinned to the wall behind the counter. “We still have some John Lemon Cheesecake and The Wu-Tang Flan. Do either of those take your fancy?” 

“Damn, and I was looking forward to it.” Franny’s whiny voice overpowers the ambient murmur of the dwindling crowd. “And this is my only cheat day, too.”

A secluded spot by a large plate-glass window is where we settle our trays. Mine and Franny’s Sweet Home Avocado burgers smell divine, while El’s low fat, no carb, no flavour Watch Out! Caesar Salad wilts in a clear plastic box.

“Well, Missy, what were you up to last night?” El angles her question my way while peeling the thin film off her salad with her acrylic talons. “You were online for a bloody long time and not once did you message me.”

For almost a week I’ve been visiting that website, and I’ve only spilt a couple of detail to my best friends, as this kind of hobby is something I couldn’t keep entirely to myself. However, that is until the other night when I met Trekky, and I just couldn’t share him.

“What else have you been trying lately? I think John and I need a few ideas in the roleplaying department. Things are getting a little stale in the old Casa de Amor.”

“Well, recently, I’ve been a Fighter Pilot, Race Car Driver, and Professional Gamer.” I count each one on a separate finger. “Once I even told someone I was an Apparel Removal Entertainment Specialist.”

“What’s that?” Franny folds her paper serviette into the perfect right-angled triangle.

“A stripper!” El declares proudly.

“How long does it take to wrap a fucking hotdog?” Yelling over at The Nosh Pit snatches my attention.

“What’s Up Dog with fries for Marina?” The poor bloke behind the counter rushes to wrap a hotdog in red and white gingham paper. But when he tries to shovel a healthy portion of fries on a paper plate, most of them end up on the floor.

“For fuck’s sake!” The petite young woman with a messy brown bun snatches her order from the dumbstruck lad. She marches over to the only clean table available—which happens to be right next to ours—and talks in hushed tones into the phone she’s just dialled.

“You know, ten years ago…” Franny says, taking my attention away from the woman, who has now begun crying with gusto. “… it was said if you met up with a stranger in a chat room, you’d be thrown into the back of a van and found dead in the woods two weeks later.”

“I’m not an idiot, Franny,” I shake my head. “Plus, loads of people are doing it nowadays. Hello… Tinder. I’m not even meeting them in person, anyway. Besides, I’ve always thought I was meandering down the road those stories haven’t talked about.”

“But you could chat to a fifty-year-old bald guy in a My Little Pony T-shirt for all you know,” Franny says.

“As long as I don’t see a fifty-year-old bald guy in a My Little Pony T-shirt. Then I don’t care.”

Franny’s always been the one that hasn’t fully seen eye-to-eye with my extracurricular activity from the start. She’s been dating her boyfriend, John, for as long as I’ve known her. She’s even expecting a proposal by graduation. El and I don’t think that’s going to happen, and we know deep down Franny doesn’t believe it either.

 “Does that place had webcam chats too? Have you been doing any of that kinda stuff?” Franny’s offhand quip has El dropping her fork, both of their attention now solely on me. Franny, because it’s another thing she’ll disagree with. El, because she’s also a kinky little devil and will want all the details.

“You know I wouldn’t do the webcam stuff.”

“And why the hell not? You’d get up to all kinds of shit on something like that.”

I laugh. “Come on, do you really expect people to want to see this in the nude?” I cut off their protests with a little false bravado. Again, I use the laugh I’ve done so many times when trying out a little self-deprecating humour. It used to work, but now, I think they can see right through it. So, I change tactics. “Sending nudes or bikini pictures is mainstream. A little boring. Go to any well-stocked Instagram page or porn site, and they can get their fix there. In my little corner of the world, anonymity and imagination are more than enough titillation for some.”

Franny looks inquiringly at El. “Why don’t you try chatrooms? It’ll be a lot less messy than your tinder dates.”

Wasn’t Franny trying to talk me out of it ten seconds ago? Why is it alright for El to meet people online but not me?

A wailing sob from the woman at the next table pauses our bickering. All three of us look over at the stranger as she shoves her untouched food to the other side of the table, then nestles her face in her folded arms. I’m just about to lean over and ask if she’s alright when the woman stands, knocks over her chair, and storms out of the food court.

“You’ve already tried it, haven’t you? So, what happened?” Franny says, taking us by surprise. And just like that, the strange woman is forgotten.

“Nah, it’s not for me. But it’s not like I didn’t give it a go.” El picks up her empty salad box and throws it into the recycling bin ten feet away. “I practically screamed for them to abuse my virtual body till they wore out the letters on their keyboards, but it didn’t work. Me canna write like Pen does.”

They both turn to look at me as I add more vinegar to my chips. “What?” I hate it when they put me on the spot like this.

“Why don’t you look for someone for El? You can set them up and…”

“Yeah, like the last guy you set me up with?” I can’t hide my harsh tone when I interrupt Franny’s little cupid moment. “Anyway, we all know sitting in one place is something El isn’t fond of, and having a social life isn’t trendy in a chatroom. You need to put in the effort. It’s like eating a big box of chocolates. You can’t eat them all in one go, you need to take your time. Have a taste, spit or swallow, then go onto the next one.”

“Anyway, with a name like The Smut Hut, it’s no wonder you haven’t found one good enough,” Franny scoffs.

Lowering my head, I dig around my plate for my remaining chips while thinking about my last conversation on there. Is it too early to tell if Trekky’s good enough? But I might not have the chance again to find out. I left him high and dry while a sorted-out Cressida’s little tantrum. I swear, if I never get to speak with Trekky again because of her, I’ll…

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Franny, did you see that?” The volume of El’s voice rises a few notches.

“No, what did I miss?”

“Pen’s blushing.”

“Am not.” I say around a mouthful of burger.

“Are too. So, come out with it. Who is he?”

“God, keep your voice down.” I slump into the hard plastic chair, desperately trying to disappear.

“Come on, what’s he like? What have you been talking about?” El picks up her large fountain beverage with both hands and slurps through a pink silicone straw.

“OK, OK. There is one that’s a little different. We’ve talked twice and they’ve both been…”

 “So, you’ve spoken to him twice?” Nothing gets past El.

I open my mouth to explain my feelings towards this stranger I’ve only just met. If anybody can help me solve my dilemma, it’s these gals.

Out of nowhere, there she is again—the woman we thought was gone—charging in, arms up. “Hey! I want some ice-cream. And pickles. Lots of pickles. I’m eating for two, you know.”

All three of us hurriedly sneak out before the woman discovers The Nosh Pit doesn’t have pickles on the menu. It looks like I’ll have to bring up my dilemma another time.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT

The rain’s stopped, the sun is out, and the third instalment of my student loan has finally cleared. It’s time for a bit of retail therapy.

Grosvenor isn’t known for its adrenaline-charged high street shopping experiences. If its designer labels or a fancy vegan bistro you're looking for, then go to our neighbouring town, Portally. Here has everything the generation that invented the colour beige would want. This is a meat and tatties kind of town, with an abundance of homemade soap emporiums and grandma owned tea rooms. However, it also has more pubs, betting shops, and sex stores than most major cities in the country, but we hide them behind words like “boutique” and “arcade” to satisfy the snootier residents.

A growing crowd of mostly old ladies in padded anoraks stares in horror into the shop window of an upmarket adult store. Their nattering echoes down the high street, providing more publicity for Spank You’s new window display.

Spank You Very Much is the place people around here call “the naughty knicker boutique” because they’re too uptight to use the word “spank” in polite conversation. To its credit, it’s usually decked out in innocent-looking pinks and whites and has windows displaying expensive lingerie any virgin would be proud of. It’s under new management as of today, and they’ve unveiled the raunchiest display this town has ever seen.

I rarely fall for high street trickery when it comes to guerrilla advertising, but this sucker has me tripping over my feet and face planting onto the gum covered pavement. 

“I’m so sorry.” I apologise to the two old women walking behind me, but they just tut and roll their eyes as they scooch past me.

Once back on stable feet, I cross the road to get a better view. The window dresser has thrown out the customary headless mannequins and replaced them with something more… interactive.

 “Does he come with the costume?” The chatter amongst the crowd suggests the new display is a big hit.

Two real-life models—one man and one woman—parade the full length of the window display in front of an artificial backdrop of willow branches and blossom. It takes me to springtime in the countryside, where the only sound is the hum of hungry bumble bees and the tweeting of tiny sparrows.

The model on the left is an old-fashioned maid, with a froo-froo black dress complete with a feather duster and frilly pinny. She walks around dusting the props and batting her eyes at the older men in the crowd.

“I think I’ll buy that one for the missus,” I hear a man saying.

The other is a dripping wet gentleman in an oversized white shirt, tight black jodhpurs and knee-high boots. It screams, If you know, you know. The model leans against the plate-glass window and occasionally picks an onlooker and executes a faultless gentlemanly bow. This perfect replica of Mr Darcy, I’m sure, will be on everyone’s Christmas wish-list this year.

Suddenly, I take in a sharp breath as a third model comes into view. Her rounded afro almost brushes the ceiling. From my low vantage point, a pair of long legs initially dominated my view, and only when she turns and walks away do I get a full look at her outfit.

Made from a heavy velour fabric, her red dress hangs well above the knees. Metallic gold bands encircle her wrists, and a Starfleet insignia is perfectly placed on the left side of her chest.

Never in my life have I wanted an outfit as badly. Not two days ago, I was roleplaying in a similar uniform. I can’t help but laugh. It’s almost like my fantasies have come to life. I just wish my bank balance did the same.

Before I know it, I squeeze past an excited group of customers, sampling small bottles of expensive scents by the entrance. Further inside and the pockets of perfume turn into a thick musky aroma that smells like brand new rubber and strawberry lube. Intoxicating and alluring. It makes me think of a sex dungeon, a smell I’m hoping they’ve bottled up and are selling as a candle. 

“Good morning. I’m Genevieve. Can I help you?” asks an employee wearing a rhinestone-encrusted nametag. Her voice is surprisingly husky for such a young woman. I can’t imagine her in any other role except for an erotic narrator. Perhaps this is her part-time job?

“I’m just looking, thanks?” I blush. If I’m not buying the outfit in the window, at least I can treat myself to some nice knickers.

I walk over to a large oval table in the centre of the room where there’s a pile of lacy dental floss and more modest apparel that could easily cover both cheeks. I begin my treasure hunt in this chaotic mess and search for a pair in my size. It doesn’t take me long to find a pair. I hold my breath and read the disgustingly high price tag on knickers similar to some I already own, only twice as expensive.

A loud moan suddenly echoed around the room. Its volume is so intense that it completely drowns out the cheesy ballads playing in the speakers above.

I shake my head and laugh it off. I’m positive I’m hearing things. It must be those long nights making up kinky-shit that’s finally getting the better of me. But then I catch Genevieve’s eye from across the room, and I can tell by her subtle eye-roll and a hint of a giggle that I imagined nothing.

Two half-naked bodies stumble from behind a gaudy sequined curtain, and their awkward tumble rips it from the metal pole. Every customer turns and stares at the pair as their giggling becomes a bounty of hysterical laughter when they finally hit the floor in a crumpled heap.

The man squiggles on the floor while hitching up his trousers, but not before I get a good eyeful of his tanned backside. The woman nonchalantly stands and drapes the sequins around her like a toga, covering the bits and pieces that have vacated the naughty maid uniform she’s also wearing.

“I apologise,” Genevieve says as she runs past me to help the pair into another changing room. She returns a little out of breath and continues. “Unfortunately, she’s one of our biggest customers, and now our new owner. We daren’t say no.”

Still holding the knickers with the tag swinging wildly, I stare as the man from behind the curtain emerges alone. Now dressed in a dark blue tailored suit, it’s only his ruffled salt and pepper hair and the smirk on his face that is the giveaway to his recent actions.

He saunters over to the sales counter, taking his time to remove a thick leather wallet from his jacket pocket and declares, “I’ll take one of each in a size twenty-two. And throw in a Darcy number for me, just like the one in the window. A 34R will do nicely.”

 “Er, y-yes sir. I mean, yes, Mr Queen.” Genevieve says as she fumbles with his purchases. “Would you like them sent straight to your home?”

“No, we’ll take them now,” Mrs Queen steps out of the changing room. No longer in the naughty maid uniform, instead she looks the pinnacle of corporate professionalism. Clad in a cream business suit with a matching designer handbag that even Cressida couldn’t afford. I doubt anyone could connect this businesswoman to the sequined Grecian goddess that fell out of the changing room a moment ago. “How’s the window display fairing?”

“Very well, Mrs Queen. The local tabloids took pictures a couple of hours ago, and we’ve already sold out of the devil and the naval uniforms.”

“Ha, take that Cherry Pop. Let’s see them make the papers.” Mr Queen proclaims.

They prepare to leave with two enormous shopping bags in each hand, but just as Mrs Queen takes her husband’s arm, she turns and says to Genevieve, “Give this young lady something from the window and put it on my tab. Call it a promotional giveaway.” They leave arm in arm before I have the chance to thank her.

“Well congratulations. It looks like you’re a lucky winner.” Genevieve’s smile is a captivating blend of warmth and astonishment, a subtle shock lingering at the corners of her mouth. “Well, what costume would you like? Mrs Queen said something from the window, but I’ll give you the choice of anything in the collection.”

“I-I don’t know.” My hand reaches for another pair of boy shorts. “I only came in for these.”

“Don’t be silly.” Genevieve snatches the shorts from my hands, plonks them down on the table, and guides me to the costumes in the back. Unlike the party shop around the corner that sells similar attire, this place doesn’t stinge on quality. These costumes aren’t stuffed into plastic bags with a picture on the front. Here, they hang from solid wooden hangers and have labels that match Genevieve’s name tag.

“What are you? A sixteen?” Genevieve says while thumbing through a row of pirate corsets and matching skirts.

“No, I’m an eighteen to twenty.” I’ve never told anyone my dress size before as I do all my clothes shopping alone or online. Now I feel like I have to picture Genevieve as some kind of doctor. She’s a professional, right? She won’t scoff at my size. I feel my anxiety rise as Genevieve thumbs through the clothes, getting further and further to the back of the rack.

“Are those two always like that? Mr and Mrs Queen, I mean.” I ask, trying to take my mind off my future embarrassment and lower my blood pressure so my face doesn’t turn bright red.

Genevieve pulls out a royal blue corset with gold filigree embroidery and holds it against my chest. “Pretty much. But when someone spends that kind of money, then down right buys the place, we turn a blind eye.”

“Yeah, but they were so…”

“Yes?!” The shock in her voice is enough to scold me, and my cheeks turn hot.

“No, no.” I wave my hands in defence. “I mean…” I glance over at the sequined curtain. “They were so public about it. She didn’t even mind that everyone saw her…” I circle my left boob with a finger.

Genevieve laughs and then exchanges the corset for a nun’s habit. “Sex is on every shelf in here. If it embarrasses you, then perhaps this isn’t the establishment you’re looking for.”

 “Hey! I’m not a prude, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I shoved the dress aside.

“Could have fooled me,” Genevieve says quietly under her breath.

“What do you mean by that? I’ve done things too, you know.”

She hangs up the dress, then looks me dead in the eye. “What do you think she has to be embarrassed about?”

I reply with a simple shrug.

“Mrs Queen has nothing to be embarrassed about. She has a cracking set of boobs. You should know, you’ve seen one,” Genevieve puts a hand on her hip and steps even closer. “What… is it because she’s older? Is that it?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just… I wish I had her confidence.”

A small smile settles on her lips. “Sorry, it’s just… never mind. It’s just… They’re lovely people and I hate to have anyone think less of them.”

Her hazel eyes look me up and down. I know she’s taking in my figure under my baggy jumper that’s two sizes too big. I tug and pull my clothes, then rearrange my backpack over my shoulder.

“Mr Queen squeals when he comes. We’ve all heard him,” laughter bursts out of Genevieve’s mouth. Just how long has she been holding that in? Her mirth is infectious, and I find myself joining in. “We’ve even seen them go through more sex toys than The Incredible Hulk goes through shirts.”

I gotta cover my mouth for that bit of scandal.

Our giggling slowly subsides. “It’s alright about the costume. Give it to someone else who’ll use it.” I turn to walk away.

“It’s because she’s plus size. Isn’t it?” She asks, a little louder this time, but not enough for other people to hear.

I halt my steps and look back.

“You know, I met Mrs Queen the day of her first date with her now husband. She was looking for something to wear after they got back from dinner. She told me she wanted this man on his knees by midnight. And by Jove. He was.”

“Damn.” I listen to her tale of an unrequited office romance that began at the water cooler. She tells me how Mrs Queen was oblivious to his subtle hints until one day she caught him staring. She swears she saw him drool when she bent over to pick up a pen.

“It looked like he had eyes only for her from the start,” Genevieve says, a tear in her eye. “She didn’t have to change. He saw who she was and loved her for it.”

“So why did she buy a costume? Wouldn’t her normal clothes have worked if he was so infatuated with her?”

“Don’t you get it? These are here to just spice things up. Once that costume comes off, it’s all about you, babe. You can’t hide behind a character forever.”

“What did she buy?” I ask after a moment of silence.

Over in the corner, Genevieve chooses a long, black evening dress. The fishtail silhouette is noticeable even hanging limply on the hanger. Its black-on-black fabric is rich with subtle beading and heavy embroidery. The size… a twenty-six.

“It’s beautiful.” I pick up the sleeve and examine the lace dripping from the cuff. “Elvira?”

“No. Morticia Addams.”

I skim the textured material with my palm all the way to the neckline. The deep V plunges almost to the navel, and I smile, thinking about Mrs Queen wearing this for her husband. Her sultry walk as she saunters over to him and seduces the man until he’s a puddle at her feet.

“We have this in your size.” Genevieve says.

I take a moment, then say, “I don’t think Morticia Addams is right for me. What about the Star Trek costume in the window? Do you have it in gold? Captains usually wear gold.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE

The shelf in my kitchen cupboard creaks from the weight of fifteen tin cans. I bought them from the reduced section as they lacked a label. But I needn’t worry, I’ve been assured they contain baked beans and not the pineapple chunks they had on sale last week.

My handbag and the rest of my purchases are on the countertop, forgotten until a familiar voice creeps up behind me. “Ooh, what do we have here?”

I turn and spot my pink Spank You Very Much garment bag dangling from a flawlessly manicured finger.

“Please, put that down.” I try to keep an air of indifference in my voice, as I daren’t show fear. I hold back the need to snatch the bag out of her hand. She's athletic for a reason, not just looks. She'll barricade herself in her room before I even get close.

“I didn’t think you could afford a place like this?” Using that delicate finger, Cressida lifts the bag and examines the logo embossed on the front. She might have money, but her room is the same as mine—same squeaky desk chair, same single bed. And I know this blue carpet doesn’t stop at her doorstep. “I hope you’ll give me a fashion show.” She smirks, lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow, and studies my dishevelled form from head to toe. “Actually, now I think about it, don’t bother.” She unceremoniously drops the bag by my feet and walks to the door. “Seeing you in a pair of crotchless knickers would be the death of me. Best to stick with the black baggy t-shirts. They’re more… you.” Her lasting words said with a mocking pout.

Grabbing my belonging off the counter, I hurry back to my fortress of solitude. Before the door closes, I throw the boutique bag across the room, then mimic its action as it slides down the wall and crumples into a heap. I grimace at its pretty script and black ribbon handles and make a quick mental note to return my free-gift on my next trip into town. Perhaps they’ll let me exchange it for something I’d actually wear. Who was I kidding?

Kicking the pink garment bag as I pass, I boot up my computer, then tip out my other purchases on the bed. Even from over here, I can hear the rust-bucket showing its age. The noises it makes sounds like brass cogs and unoiled gears.

I add a few newly printed photos of El, Franny and me to my walls. I can already see El’s eye roll for my chosen candid shots. Franny will be fine with them; all she wants is perfect edge alignment.

Vibrant yellow stickers smother the packaging of two nail polishes and a cheeky red lipstick. A long receipt with, No returns on sale items, in bold black lettering lies beside them on the bed. I toss them into an old shoebox just as my computer finally chimes its opening melody.

Since seeing Mr. and Mrs. Queen tumble from the changing room this afternoon, I've needed to share the story with Trekky. I’m still unsure whether I want to recreate that moment virtually or just use it for inspiration. With a flourish of excitement, I type in my handle. I’ll find out soon enough.

A faint giggle floats down the hallway, followed by the opening and surprise slamming of the front door. I know it was for my benefit. I’m the only one who’ll hear it. Then her words come back to haunt me, “Best stick with the black baggy t-shirts. They’re more… you.”

A burst of anger causes my cheeks to heat, and I’m positive my face is as red as my new lipstick.

“I’ll show you what’s me.”

I snatch the dented shopping bag off the floor and stomp into my bathroom, the proud faces of my two best friends looking down at me as I pass.

By adding a bold red lip, I'm almost fully transformed. My edges are a little wobbly, but at least I don’t resemble The Joker. I didn’t overdo my eye makeup, brown shadow and black lashes, seems good enough, and my once frizzy red hair now bounces in soft waves and curls around my face. It no longer accentuates my rounded cheeks but now compliments my features. Do I dear compare myself to Jessica Rabbit? No. Because Jessica doesn’t wear a Star Trek uniform.

Strutting into my bedroom, I pull the cord of my window blinds and admire my reflection in the darkened glass—it’s the nearest thing I own to a full-length mirror.

“Not bad, if I say so myself.”

A slight shake of the mouse and my blank screen awakens. I don’t hesitate when entering my usual haunt, as I feel a little more dressed for the occasion tonight, even if it’s just for my eyes only.

            One_Trek_Mind: You’re not tired of me already, I hope.

            Lady_W: What do you mean?

            One_Trek_Mind: You left without a goodbye.

I’ve been so preoccupied with our next chat that the issue has since faded into nothing. In disbelief at my lapse in memory, I instinctively slap my forehead.

            Lady_W: On the contrary. I would have kept going all night. Blame my flatmate. Can’t live with them…can’t afford to live by myself.

            One_Trek_Mind: That’s a relief. I was worried I wasn’t good enough.

            Lady_W: Oh, believe me. You’re more than good enough.

            One_Trek_Mind: Stop. You’re making me blush.

            Lady_W: That’s not all I’m going to do.

            One_Trek_Mind: Starting off strong.

            Lady_W: I’m on a high. A little retail therapy seems to have helped.

            One_Trek_Mind: Shopping, huh? Buy me anything nice?

            Lady_W: In a way.

            One_Trek_Mind: Would you mind if I ask what you bought?

I brush my palm over the fabric covering my outer thigh.

            Lady_W: Have you ever heard of a place called Spank You Very Much?

            One_Trek_Mind: Absolutely. I once bought a bow tie, collar and cuff set from them.

            One_Trek_Mind: For a friend, I might add.

            One_Trek_Mind: But please. Let me guess first.

            One_Trek_Mind: It’s a furry costume, isn’t it? I have nothing against furries, but I have to tell you that I’m allergic to cats.

            One_Trek_Mind: Or is it a pair of crotchless knickers and a peekaboo bra?

            One_Trek_Mind: No, no, no. A set of red nipple pasties and an edible thong?

            One_Trek_Mind: Am I close? I hope you’ll model them for me, whatever it is.

Model for them for me, he asked. They were almost the same words Cressida used not an hour ago. Would I get the same response from him if I did model them? A sneer, then a smirk?

“Shake it off, Pen.” I say aloud. “He won’t actually see what you’re wearing.” I flick my hair over my shoulder and sit up a little straighter in my chair. 

            Lady_W: I can describe it to you.

            One_Trek_Mind: Alright, throw out a few clues and let me guess.

My eyes drifted downward, taking in the sight of my own body clad in something so different. The velvet feels like butter when I run my fingers along the sleeve. “How could I ever hate you?” I say to the dress, then blow a kiss to the gold Starfleet emblem on my breast.

            Lady_W: You could say it reminds me of you a little.

            One_Trek_Mind: Sounds intriguing, but I’ll need more than that.

            Lady_W: It’s blue, with just a hint of metallic gold in some places.

            One_Trek_Mind: Belle?

            One_Trek_Mind: Hang on. That’s not my final answer.

            Lady_W: Second clue: It has a military flare, but not as we know it.

            One_Trek_Mind: A minion?

            Lady_W: Is that your final answer?

            One_Trek_Mind: Christ, I hope not.

            Lady_W: Third clue: I could have bought a blue one, as that one came with a pair of pointy rubber ears.

The silence is deafening. I hate it when he does this. He must have guessed it by now—this so-called Trekkie.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m in awe. You’ve set my phaser to cum.

I let out a deep breath. He got it!

            Lady_W: Stand down crewman. There’s no need to get overexcited.

            One_Trek_Mind: Crewman? Call me Colin.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN

COLIN

The silence is deafening in my empty flat. “Colin, you bellend. You’re going to scare her off.” I say aloud as I rearrange the bulge in my jeans.

Maybe I can do some kind of damage control? I type inside the text box and ramble on. I tell her it was all a joke. That perhaps we should give our character’s real names instead of our handles, and would Colin be a good name to use? I’m about to tap enter but change my mind at the last minute. Instead, I delete the whole thing and wait for her reply.

I hope I haven’t fucked things up too much. This place contains weirdos and sex deviants that sit in their parents’ basement, eating their own hair, and living off crisps and energy drinks. I mean, who would give out a real name on here?

Me, apparently.

I run my fingers through my hair, then glance at the stack of homework sat on the corner of my desk waiting to be marked. This isn’t the first time I’ve put off doing actual work for chatting. I can’t help it. This woman’s like a drug I never want to be sober of.

She knows how to turn me on. Case in point—that fucking dress!

As soon as she mentioned that dress, I knew I was a goner, and that’s because I know that dress. I spotted it this morning when I took a drive to visit my parents in Grosvenor. The crowd around the windows of Spank You Very Much was obscene. Old women glowering at the models in the windows like they were attending some kind of witch-burning.

As I drove past, I thought little of the outfit. It wasn’t until Lady had told me she was wearing it that I became rock hard.

It’s funny just how quickly she’s got to know me.

I finish my can of cherryade; the bubbles tickling my nose even though it’s been sitting on my desk for the last hour. Usually, I’d down it and go grab another, but I can’t bring myself to leave my laptop.

“I really did fuck up.” A sinking feeling hits my stomach, and I’m about to call it a day when I finally get the reply I’ve been waiting for.

            Lady_W: I have a cousin called Colin. But that’s not you, obviously. He isn’t allowed on the internet, let alone chatrooms. He's a pretty terrible speller, anyway. He’s only six years old.

I let out a loud burst of laughter. Alright, this isn’t the exact reply I was waiting for. This isn’t her typical style, but it’s still…her.

My Lady is blabbering.

Cute.

            One_Trek_Mind: I must say, it’s weird seeing you say my name.

            One_Trek_Mind: Well, type it.

            Lady_W: Why’dja tell me?

I want her to talk to me, not the character I’ve made. That I want her to shout my name when she comes, because I know she will one day. It might not be me in person, but knowing that it’s my name on the tip of her tongue is enough.

            One_Trek_Mind: Anybody who puts my cock in their mouth should at least know my name. It’s polite. Don’t you think?

I let out a deep breath, then retrieve a cherryade from the fridge. On the way back, I spot my phone growing dark. It’s a missed call from my old landlord in Grosvenor. I debate whether to call him back or leave it for the morning. It’s funny, the last time he rang I was also talking to Lady. What are the odds?  

No, I think I will leave it for tomorrow. Who wants to talk to a grouchy old man when I can talk to my Lady?

The tension in my pants is killing me, so I unzip my jeans and relieve the pressure. It’s not just the dress that’s doing it. Dear god, I want her to wear it for me right here, right now. But until then, I want her to describe every curve of her body while wearing it. I need to know if it comes to her knees or upper thigh. Does her hair cover her badge on her chest or is it short and barely brushes her collar? I have a list of things I need to know.

My mouth feels suddenly parched.

            Lady_W: My real name is Penelope

My mouth falls open while still full of cherryade. It dribbles down my chin and covers my white t-shite. “Fuck.” I shout as I choke on the rest.

A mixture of emotions goes through me, all good, but all very different.

My Lady is gone. She’s not dead, but more like regenerated.

“Penelope.” I say under my breath. Then with a smile I utter, “Pen.” I still can’t put a face to a name, but I can put a name to my thoughts. My very impure thoughts.

Penelope. It suits her.

I don’t think I could’ve picked something that’s more her. It’s a name that says, “I’m modest, and unassuming. I hide in plain sight.” But I know Pen, now. I know it’s all a smokescreen for the tempestuous goddess she really is.

She’s nervous, I can tell, but I don’t want to make it a big deal, so I say something that’ll hopefully put her at ease.

            One_Trek_Mind: Much obliged, Penelope.

Oh, she doesn’t know how obliged I am.

Chapter Text

PENELOPE

Staring at the computer screen in disbelief, my arms fall to my sides. A hand finds the smooth metal lever on my chair, and as I let out a long breath, I slowly lower myself down, feeling the familiar give of the worn cushion.

It says it on the front page in bold red lettering, flashing at you so you won’t forget. Never give out personal information. I’d have this rule tattooed on my forehead given half a chance.

Are we going to get in trouble?

It was the dress, wasn’t it? We wouldn’t be here if I’d told him I bought a sexy cat outfit, or sexy post-box costume, or something else mundane with the word sexy before it.

Well, too late now.

Resting my elbows on the desk, I align my fingers into a pyramid of contemplation. Then, closing my eyes, I test his name on my tongue.

“Colin.”

It feels weird. I think I like it. It suits him.

“Colin.”

His name now synonymous with warm fuzzies and clammy palms.

“Colin, Col, Collie.”

Nah, he’s a Colin.

“Col…”

Shit! She might be listening. I round my shoulders and bring my face closer to the keyboard. I know this sounds silly, but I wouldn’t put it past Cressida to know everything that’s happened in my room.

Anyway, now what?

Does Colin want to know my name? The chances of finding a person with only a first name are slim. Perhaps if my name was something unique, like Blue Diamond, or Pineapple, he might have half a chance, but Penelope? Why can’t it be something like Katie or Jane. You can’t throw a rock in a crowd without hitting a Jane.

I’m over-thinking this as usual. It’s only a name, for God’s sake. What’s the harm in a name? I ignore the whole mythology behind Rumpelstiltskin and Beetlejuice for the time being.

Using my real name could be quite interesting, I guess. Personalised messages of debauchery to innocent old Penelope is something new. “Argh, why is this so hard?” I growl through my teeth as I grab a fist full of hair.

A name is more than just a few letters on a birth certificate; it’s an identity. If someone doesn’t like Lady_W, then who cares? I can’t take anything personally that’s addressed to her because she’s not me. Is she?

Penelope is an entirely different matter. That's the name my parents debated for three weeks before I was born. It's been with me throughout my schooling and in every birthday card for years. It’s the name I signed on the back of my Spank You Very Much loyalty card. This name holds my entire life in its eight letters. Good or bad. It’s who I am.

“Say something, you stupid woman,” I declare, then type the first string of nonsense that comes to mind.

            Lady_W: I have a cousin called Colin. But that’s not you, obviously. He isn’t allowed on the internet, let alone chatrooms. He's a pretty terrible speller, anyway. He’s only six years old.

            One_Trek_Mind: I must say, it’s weird seeing you say my name.

            One_Trek_Mind: Well, type it.

I won’t beat around the bush. I need to know why he’s entrusted me with something so personal.

            Lady_W: Why’dja tell me?

            One_Trek_Mind: Anybody who puts my cock in their mouth should at least know my name. It’s polite. Don’t you think?

He’s got a point.

But he made it look so easy. Is it really that simple? I type “My real name is Penelope” into the text box and stare at it for a moment.

But I'm still not quite there yet. But I'm not sure I'll ever be ready. Perhaps a day or two will be enough time to help me decide, a week at the most. I nod and blindly reach for the backspace.

            Lady_W: My real name is Penelope.

“No, no, no, no, no, NO!” I cover my mouth and gasp into my hands. “What have I done?” I look at my pinkie proudly hovering over the return key. If a finger could talk, I know it would shout out, “That’s for biting me till I bleed. Bitch.”

My heart races and small black dots invade my vision. I pick up my mobile and dial the one person I know can calm me down.

“You’ve got to help me!” I plead as I pace my room. “I’ve told him my name. It was a complete accident. What do I do? WHAT DO I DO?!!”

“What?” El asks behind a yawn. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Colin!” Once again, I cover my mouth with a hand. “I told him my name.” I whisper down the line. “I’m such an idiot. You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

“Who the fuck is Colin?”

“The person I’ve been talking to all this whole time. He told me his name, and I accidentally told him mine. I didn’t mean to do it. It just slipped out.”

“Penelope.”

“I told you it was an accident, right? I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m never this careless.”

“Penelope.”

“What if I’ve ruined everything? What if his mum is called Penelope? He wouldn’t want to talk dirty to his mum. Oh, shit. What if his ex is called Penelope?”

“PENELOPE!”

I jump about five feet in the air. My ear ringing. “Yeah?”

“What did he say after you told him?”

I read aloud his latest message.

“Much obliged, Penelope? That’s it?” El asks.

“Well, yeah. Wait. He’s typing something.”

            One_Trek_Mind: I know that must have taken a lot to tell me.

            One_Trek_Mind: I appreciate it.

Before El can give me any more advice, my phone cuts off. My monthly minutes are down to zero. I wait for her to call me back, but I receive a brief text instead.

            Just go with it. ;)

El’s right. It’s too late to take it back. I need to own it.      

            Lady_W: Don’t mention it. It’s only a name.

I flippantly toss a curl over my shoulder. A newfound sense of bravery fills my body.

            Lady_W: Hey, I have an idea.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m listening.

Before I change my mind, I type something I never thought I would. My fingers dance over the keys, their light-hearted tapping sings to me. I wait for the inevitable dread, but it doesn’t come. That feeling in the pit of my stomach when I go outside the box isn’t anywhere to be felt.

Debling was a risk. But Colin isn’t Debling.

            Lady_W: How about a virtual date?

            One_Trek_Mind: What do you mean?

            Lady_W: We have a meal together. Right here. Over chat.

I won’t say I’d be upset if he declines my offer, but I’d be shocked if he laughs in my face.

            One_Trek_Mind: All right. We could synchronise our TVs. Watch the same thing at the same time. Unless you want to stream something.

            Lady_W: No, the TV is fine. How’s 8 pm. Saturday night?

            One_Trek_Mind: It’s a date.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWELVE

Colin

“Sir, I don’t get question six.” Nick shouts over the silence, waving his arm in the air like he’s trying to signal a passing ship.

“Nick,” rubbing the tired out of my eyes, I try to compose myself before continuing. “We’ve gone over this a hundred times. Weren’t you even listening?”

“Yeah, I was. But….”

“But what?" Noticeably, the lights are on, but nobody’s home.

Nick moves about in his seat, shifting from one butt cheek to the other. The entire class glances up from their papers, waiting for the last zinger of the day from their class clown. Unfortunately, he’s finally run out of steam, and his audience knows it.

The bell chimes in the hallway just as the star of the show opens his mouth. Usually, I’d pull the old “That bell is for me, not for you. Sit back down,” line, but I can’t be bothered. I’m tired. I don’t even fight them when they pack up their things, leaving a few “See ya, Sir” in their wake.

The silence is bliss, but the state of my classroom isn’t. I quickly tidy a few chairs, dispose of some contraband, and then retrieve Nick's test paper from his desk. Out of twenty-five questions, he only managed five, and the rest are illegible beneath a cartoon woman with the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen in my life. The Head teacher would suggest we report such behaviour and save the evidence so that we can call his parents and dish out some disciplinary action later. But it’s been a long day, and I want to go home. Just as I’m about to feed his paper through my shredder (I’ll tell him I lost it) and save Nick from an hour-long lecture, I notice that Nick’s spelt his name wrong… again.

“Colin?” Agatha, Aka, Mrs Danbury, the sixty-something teacher who occupies the history classroom next door, pops her head around the corner with a huge smile on her face. “Got any plans this weekend?”

“Nope, no plans.” I lie. “Why? Are you asking me out?” 

“Don’t be daft. You’re young enough to be my grandson.”

“They call us Toy Boys nowadays, Agatha.”

She flaps her hands in the air as she tries to eradicate the idea from her mind. “The hubby is taking me out Friday night. It’s our anniversary. We’re going to some posh restaurant in town. The one with the fire pits outside.”

“Sounds fancy. You two have a lovely time.” I whip out my wallet and hand her a tenner. “Here, have a drink on me.”

“My sweet boy. You don’t have to.” I almost get a paper cut when she snatches the money out of my hand. “You need someone special to spoil. You can’t be spending all that hard earned money on just me.” She clutches the note to her chest, then turns and heads back into her classroom. Agatha closes the adjoining door just as my mobile lights up with an unknown number. After a few rings, I pick it up.

“Hello, Colin Bridgerton speaking.” 

“Colin, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for… well, I don’t remember.” The gravelly voice of my old landlord scratches my eardrum. “Where the ‘ell ‘ave you been?” He adds.

“Greer! Sorry I missed your call last night. I was… busy.”

“Oh, just as long as you’re not avoiding me.”

A chuckle escaped me, but I neither confirm nor deny. Every time this man calls, it’s something bad. I thought I’d blocked his number ages ago, but looks like he’s got a new phone. The last time we spoke, he told me he’d lost the spare key to my old flat. Funnily, it was the same night I met Penelope.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, hoping it’s just a quick question, like was the last gas bill paid, or did I forget to empty the lint trap in the dryer?

“We’ve had a break-in at your old flat.”

So much for something simple. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I need you to come to the flat now,” he demands. “Or I’m taking legal action.” He hangs up without further explanation.

“Agatha!” I yell into the adjoining room as I hurriedly stuff a stack of exercise books into my backpack. She waddles into view with her brown leather handbag hooked over one arm, and her coat folded over the other. “Is everything alright?”

“Can you make some excuse for me at the faculty meeting? Something just came up.”

…

The place looks the same, but it feels different. Greer’s covered the graffiti with a lick of white paint. It looks better, but now appears out of place next to properties with spray-painted anatomically incorrect doodles.

What was I expecting for the price?

This place started out as an alternative to student housing when I was at university. It’s a simple three-bedroom shack amongst the endless row of red brick terraces. Dirt cheap but not cheerful. I can count on one hand the amount of full night’s sleep I got in the whole five years I lived here. If it wasn’t the sound of police sirens, it was the topless chavs fighting in the middle of the street that kept me awake.

I knew what I had coming when I signed the contract. Greer was straightforward about it. He told me it was a shithole. End of story.

Tonight, I look upon the house with an air of scepticism. Especially after receiving Greer’s phone call. There isn’t so much as a broken window or a single mark on the front door.

“You took your bloody time.” Greer’s voice escapes the narrow passageway between this house and next door. He emerges from the darkness like a mangy hound creeping from its kennel. Once clear of the brick archway, he straightens to his full height. At around six foot seven, he towers over me. However, there isn’t an ounce of meat on his bones to make him appear intimidating, especially with the long wisps of grey hair which usually cover his balding scalp, flapping about in the chilly winds.

“I couldn’t exactly teleport. I told you I live in Cliveden now.”

“Come ‘ere,” he snaps.

The lantern by the back door is as good as new. It clearly illuminates the unblemished finish of the door. “How did they get in?” I ask while scanning the plastic guttering and the small kitchen window.

“Oh, they didn’t break anything.”           

I throw my hands up in the air, “You told me someone broke in. So, why am I here?”

“We now know where that spare key went.” He growls and unlocks the back door into the kitchen.

Inside, the place hasn’t changed. Wandering into the dining room, I see the same rickety dining table and mismatch chairs. Then I go into what was the living room, now converted into a third bedroom with two sets of bunk beds. I wouldn't be surprised to find hammock in the coat closet. There was a reason we called him Greedy Greer.

Passing through the dining room, I meet him back in the dark kitchen. I daren’t ask him to turn a light on in case he charges me. “I’ve come all this way for this, Greer. It looks better than when I first moved in. Can you cut to the chase and tell me why I’m here?”

Greer points towards the other end of the kitchen but doesn’t utter a word.

With the torch on my phone lit, I can see the kitchen counter is clear except for a wooden block with four knives protruding out of the top. “Am I missing something?” I ask.

“No. But I am.” He impatiently flicks his finger to the block of knives. “She took one. That fucking ex of yours.”

“What?”

Amongst the set of knives is an empty slot. It looks like it held the biggest knife of the bunch. “How can you be sure it’s her?”

Greer reaches inside his breast pocket and pulls out a pink heart-shaped post-it note. He slams it on the counter with so much force the drawer rattles.

            I promise I’ll bring it back. M xx

I’m silent.

Completely lost for words.

The handwriting belongs to Marina, right down to the heart where the O in my name usually sits. “Why haven’t you called the police yet?”

“Like they’ll make a report on a missing kitchen knife with no signs of a break-in.” The volume of his voice beings to rise. “You know the bitch. You handle her.” Spittle shoots from his pursed lips and the colour in his face changes from a corpse grey to crimson within seconds. “And get my fucking key back. You lost it.” Greer ends with a finger pointed directly at my chest.

Typical. He's worried about his back door, while I’m looking at the beginnings of a true-crime murder-mystery with me as the victim.

“Just change the fucking locks.” I shout back while crumpling the post-it into a tight ball. I’ve never raised my voice to Greer, but I’m no longer the naïve nineteen-year-old that walked through that door almost six years ago.

“My father put those locks in before you were born.” Greer puffs out his chest. “I’m not paying some cowboy to change them for something that’ll fail the first time someone farts in its direction.”

The randomness of his comment has me perplexed. Greer’s face distorts, almost like the fart in question is currently floating under his nose.

The tension builds, and the silence stretches until for what seems like minutes, then finally, the bubble bursts and the pair of us erupt into laughter. Our loud belly laughs echo around the empty kitchen. I’ve never seen Greer wipe away tears before. The action makes me laugh, and I grip the countertop to keep me from toppling over.

“You go around farting on doors, Greer?” Now it’s my turn to wipe away a tear.

“Jesus Christ, I’m too fucking old for this kind of shite.” He takes a deep breath, then straightens up and adjusts his coat. I look away when he rearranges the grey swirl on top of his bonce.

The seriousness of the situation comes back into the room as our laughter fades. Not only does my ex have access to my old house, but she’s carrying a kitchen knife with my name on it. “I’m sorry Greer, but I deleted her number ages ago, and I don’t know where she’s living now.”

Greer nods, finally accepting the truth. He’s not getting that key back.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

PENELOPE

Two dresses. That’s all I own. Am I surprised? Not in the least. I’m not a dress kinda gal, but tonight I need something a little more date appropriate. I’ve been staring at these dresses for what feels like hours, holding them flat against my body, twirling like a loon just to see if they look any better. Sadly, they don’t. I repeat, I’m not a dress girl… well, except for one, but Colin already knows about that.

The first dress has always reminded me of what a background dancer from Grease would wear. I shudder when I recall how I came into owning such a poofy monstrosity. “I bought it for all those parties you’ll go to.” My mother’s voice still echoes in my memory from years ago.

Without a second thought, I ball up the dress and throw it back into the bottom of my wardrobe, where its voluminous netting peeks out from around the sides of the doors like a squashed yellow bug beneath last week’s newspaper.

It looks like I’m left with the black and white maxi with the sales tag still attached. El and I bought it during a late night sesh where the wine was cheap and plentiful. We were only reminded of what had occurred when a package was delivered to my flat a few days later. It contained this dress, a cassette of one-hit wonders from 1991, and a do-it-yourself piercing kit.

Following a quick shower, I curl my hair, apply a little makeup and slip on my pink fuzzy bathrobe. With quiet steps, I enter the kitchen and put my culinary skills (however limited) to the test by adding water to some dried pasta and bring it to a boil.

“Please take a seat in here. I’ll be with you in a mo… oh, Penelope. What are you doing in here?” Cressida leads a mid-aged man into the living room. His demeanour confuses me as I watch him shuffle over to the sofa. He chooses the side furthest from the kitchen and turns his body away from me so that he’s facing the wall. A completely blank wall.

“I live here?” I tell her. Sometimes I wonder if I have rights in this place at all. The rent isn’t much, but I make sure to pay it on time.

“Well, how long are you going to be?” She leans over the countertop and peers into the pan. “I don’t want the flat smelling of boiled socks,” she whispers.

“You know, some people cook in their kitchens, Cressida.” I say straight to her face, deadpan.

Her glare falters, but only for a second. Two lines etch between her brows. “Err… you!” She calls over her shoulder to her guest. “Wait here. I’ll call for you when I’m ready.” She leaves, but as the door closes behind her, she glances in my direction.

My shoulders drop but not from relief, but more from a sense of achievement. I feel the need to do a little jig, perhaps pound the air. I finally said what I was thinking. Stood up for myself, even though it was about something so minor. Luckily, we weren’t alone for her to parry my newfound confidence. I guess I should thank the stranger for that.

 “Cressida can be a little bossy, can’t she?” I point my head towards the door.

The man doesn’t join in with my bit of banter. Nor does he look my way. Instead, he wraps his jacket tight around his torso and doubles over. His forehead almost resting on his knees. 

“You alright?” I walk around the counter towards him. As I get closer, I can hear his heavy breathing and… What is that? Is he moaning?

He rocks back and forth, biting the collar of his jacket. The veins in his temples bulge, and his fists turn white as he pulls his coat even tighter around himself.

“Come!” Cressida’s voice is clear as crystal, even though she’s two sets of doors away.

“Yes, Mistress.” He springs from the seat and barges past, almost knocking me to the ground.

“Did he just call her…? No. Way!”

I turn off the gas, rush into the hallway, and try to listen through her bedroom door. As soon as my ear hits the wood, an ear-piercing guitar riff voids any chance of overhearing what’s going on in there. She’s never played music this loud before. Whatever they’re doing, she doesn’t want people to hear. “Dang.”

With a shrug, I leave them to it and go back into the kitchen to finish my meal. The hot water has already done a good enough job, so I drain the pasta, add a jar of pre-made sauce, sprinkle a little cheese on top and place it in the oven in an oven-proof dish. Gordon Ramsay, eat your heart out.  

Once significantly golden and smelling divine, I prepare to take the dish out of the oven. I slip on my brand-new Batman oven gloves, embroidered with his iconic symbol—the allure of the Dark Knight's emblem, proving too strong to ignore when I was casually shopping for pasta sauce this morning.

Reaching in, I grasped the dish with both hands, my mouth watering at the delicious aroma and the anticipation of the meal.

But, halfway to the counter, scorching heat penetrates the fabric and singes my fingers. It happens so quickly that I almost throw the dish on the floor, but I make it just in time. However, I lose a small portion as the momentum kicks out some of the pasta onto the countertop.

Ripping the gloves off, I leave them by the sink and run my fingers under a cold tap. The relief is instant, but a small sting is still there. Good, because I was beginning to panic. I need these fingers in tiptop shape tonight. Typing with one hand I can do, but I’m screwed if I can’t do it with either. I look down at the gloves and see a label peeking out from the inside. NOT FOR OVEN USE. Great.

“What the hell happened?” Cressida steps into the kitchen, with a phone pulled away from her ear. Her unusual regard for my being takes me by surprise. But then I look at the mess on the counter and think otherwise. I open my mouth to explain, but she leaves with an eye-roll and instead finishes her conversation in the hallway.

“You’ve got to come and pick this one up.” Her shouting demands my attention. “He wanted it rough, but he couldn’t take it…No, no. He wants to stay but I can’t have him bleeding everywhere… Just on his arse. But then he fell and I think he might have broken his finger.”

My burning curiosity is far more agonizing to my mind than any burn my dish could cause to my fingers. What the hell happened in there? Is Cressida some kind of dominatix now? Are her bills that bad that she’s resorting to beating men up for money?

I slowly nod my head as I think it through. I can believe it.

Cressida strides back into the room just as I’m finishing cleaning up the mess, plating out my pasta, and pouring myself a glass of water.

“I have someone coming over in a minute. I want you gone before he gets here.”

I grab a fork from the drawer and pick up my plate and glass. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

A knock on the front door startles us both; however, Cressida doesn’t act shocked for long. She charges to the door and answers it without even looking through the peephole.

“You called?” says a deep voice.

I stand on my toes and try to peer through the small window in the door, then over Cressida’s shoulder.

“Yes. Follow me.” Cressida turns and walks back to her room, leaving the front door wide open. A bulky figure concealed beneath a beige trench coat and matching flat cap walks into my hallway and closes the door behind him. His movements are smooth and confident, like he’s been here before. Then I remember. He has.

Fife!

Greasy grey hair sticks out around his ears, in desperate need of a trim. Thick wrinkled fingers peek out beneath the sleeves of his coat. His fingertips are tinged yellow and there's black beneath his nails.

I hold back and wait for them to pass so that I might slip into my bedroom unseen, but Fife opens the kitchen door. His beady eyes stare down at me, taking in my slightly open bathrobe and painted face. I grow cold when one side of his lips raises in a disturbing smirk.

“Is she working now?” Fife says over his shoulder.

“Come on. We don’t have time.”

“Shame.” He utters, and with one last look, he turns and walks to Cressida’s room.

Without delay, I juggle my plate and glass and open the kitchen door, then swiftly retreat to the sanctuary of my bedroom.

“Don’t let this happen again.” Through the wall, I can hear Fife's frustrated tone.

“I won’t.”

“We want him back for seconds…Hey buddy, can you walk?”

Then, there is only silence; a profound, unbroken stillness that hangs heavy in the air. My suspicions are growing that Cressida is a killer, and that man I saw only twenty minutes ago is dead. But then, I hear her voice. “You may talk now.”

“Yes, mistress…I can walk. But I’m not…finished. Hey, wait… I’ll pay extra…Look it doesn’t even hurt.”

“If you don’t leave quietly now, you won’t get a second chance.” Now Cressida’s tone shows equal frustration.

“Fine. Fine. I’m going.” Their footsteps travel out of her room and then down the corridor toward the front door.

“I thought all your roommates had left.” Fife says as he stands right outside my bedroom door.

“Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t get in the way.” Cressida forces a chuckle. “Bit of a loner, that one.”

“Loner?” I silently mouth.

Leaping from my chair, I run across the room. A blast of fresh air burns one eye as I peer through the gap at the bottom of my bedroom door. The coarse fibres of the carpet are scraping uncomfortably against my skin, and I can feel the burning sensation on my face. All I can see are Fife’s chunky soles, a pair of fashioned loafers, and Cressida’s pink satin kitten heels.

Without warning, the client launches himself to the floor, his weight landing heavily on his hands and knees in a swift, surprising descent. He shuffles closer, lays down flat, and plants sloppy, wet kisses on Cressida’s feet.

I'm overwhelmed by sudden laughter, and I cover my mouth to hold in the giggles because one tiny turn of his head, and we'll lock eyes.

“Hey, stop that!” Cressida yelps.

A fleeting thought of using this imagery in a scene with Colin crosses my mind, but she interrupts it by delivering a swift kick to her client’s face, eliciting the filthiest moan I’ve ever heard from a man.

Perhaps this one isn’t for us.

Still, I hold in my amusement, my eyes watering to where I can barely see. I clutch my side as a stitch jabs my ribs and I can hardly breathe.

He rolls to his side, and that’s when I see it — his erection tenting his trousers mere inches from my face.

Pushing hard against the floor, I fight to stand on a set of wobbly legs, then make my way to the other side of my room. I can’t watch anymore, not if I want to look Cressida in the eye again. Cracking open the window, I gasp for breath and laugh into the open air. The crisp winds help my mind return from the fog of hysteria, and I’m able to look down into the courtyard below. However, my vision only goes so far, as the place is unusually dark and eerily silent.

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Fife says just as the sound of a brief struggle ensues. “Get the fuck up. We’re going.”

“I’ve spoken to security. They’ve turned off the cameras and opened the gates,” Cressida yells over the scuffle.

There’s no reply, or pleasantries, or even a heartfelt goodbye between them all, just the opening and closing of two separate doors. After another moment of silence, I brave the hallway, then the foyer beyond. They’re both as quiet as the courtyard outside.

“Hey, love. Nice tits!” One of my neighbours yells from the floor above. My robe gaps open, showing off my sexiest black lace bra, which isn’t that particularly sexy, but I wanted to wear something nice under my dress for my date.

Oh shit! I’m going to be late.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Just like a grand duchess taking a seat at the top of a long banquet table, I fan my dress and sit. I straighten my fork at the side of my dish and hover my hand over the golden cheese. Still hot. Good.

Upon initiating my usual login sequence, I’m shocked by the sudden appearance of an unexpected pop-up window, materialising in a dazzling display.

You have been invited to dinner and a movie, followed by coffee and “dessert”. Please click here to accept.

The standard red backdrop melts away, exposing another chat-box in a delicate blue with bluebells adorning the corners. Is that music I hear? As I increase the volume, the sweet sound of violins caresses my ears. Gone are the nineties graphics and flashing imagery, and not a typo in sight. The upgrade is impeccable and completely disconnected from the free version I once knew. I feel as if I've undergone a sudden and surreal transition, like moving from the squalor of a one-star dive bar to the refined atmosphere of a five-star restaurant.

I can’t believe Colin’s gone to all this trouble for me. Has he paid for this? Is it a onetime thing or does he now have a membership to this website? I hope it doesn’t come with a subscription to The Smut Hut’s weekly newsletter.

            Lady_W: Good evening.

My fingers tremble, a nervous flutter against the cool keys, and I can already feel the clammy sweat on my palms. I know I’m going to remember tonight for a long time.

As I wait for Colin to reply, my curiosity—as always—is getting the better of me, and I need to explore what this new layout provides. Compared to the old style, some similarities are easy to spot, like the webcam tab, a feature I am used to but usually overlook. But then I notice a new tab that piques my interest. It’s the one that has Host Profile is a gold font. I hover over the words then…

            One_Trek_Mind: Hello there.

            One_Trek_Mind: I tidied up the place a little. I hope you like it.

            Lady_W: You did this?

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m not a programmer, I just paid for the upgrade.

            Lady_W: I didn’t know that was possible. It’s beautiful.

            One_Trek_Mind: It was the closest way I could give you flowers.

My hand flies to my chest as the fluttering sensation moves from my fingers to my heart. I grab my phone and take a quick snapshot of the flowers and make a mental note to print them off later.

            One_Trek_Mind: What are you having? I'm not much of a chef, which means tonight's dinner is a quick and easy plate of spaghetti. But it's messy, and I've had to change my shirt and tie twice!

            Lady_W: You’re in a shirt and tie?

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m not sitting here Winnie the Pooh style. I have trousers on too. I’ve had to hang my jacket over the back of my chair. Cooking is quite a hot activity.

            Lady_W: Does that mean you’re all sweaty under that shirt?

            One_Trek_Mind: Hey, tell me what you’re having first, then I’ll tell you about my sweaty muscles and glistering chest hair.

A broad grin stretches across my face as I feel the warmth spreading through my cheeks. I’ve lost my hunger, and honestly, pasta is the last thing I want right now. How does he do it? I take a take a deep breath and try to control my wanton loins.

            Lady_W: I made pasta. I’m not much of a cook either. Most of it came straight out of a jar.

            One_Trek_Mind: That’s fine by me. I don’t want you for your cooking skills, anyway.

Giggle.

            One_Trek_Mind: And what about the outfit? It better be nipple tassels and a thong, or I’m going to be very disappointed.

            Lady_W: That’s hardly appropriate for a first date, don’t you think?

            One_Trek_Mind: You’re right. We’ll save it for the second date.

            One_Trek_Mind: So… what are you wearing?

            Lady_W: Sadly, I've exhausted my supply of costumes, so I'm wearing a comfortable floor-length dress in black and white with thin straps and a zip on the side. I’ve never had a reason to wear it until now.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m flattered you wore it tonight. For me.

After we select a film from our limited options on the old-fashioned terrestrial channels (my budget doesn’t stretch to a streaming service), we tuck in. The movie is Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark. We both confess to having watched it over one hundred times. So, it’s more like background music than something that requires our entire attention.

The conversation remains casual, with a hint of naughty banter thrown in, but nothing below the belt, or as Colin puts it, under the bra. Tonight, I’ve discovered he’s a bit of a foodie and always cleans his plate. I wouldn’t want to deprive the man of his food, so I do most of the talking until we’re finished.

            Lady_W: You mentioned coffee and “dessert”.

            One_Trek_Mind: That’s right, I did.

            Lady_W: I’m not much of a coffee drinker.

            One_Trek_Mind: And what about the dessert?

            Lady_W: I forgot to grab one. Do you have something I could have?

            One_Trek_Mind: What do you desire?

            Lady_W: Something chocolaty.

            One_Trek_Mind: Excellent choice.

            One_Trek_Mind: Directly in front of me, is a truly delectable and mouthwatering slice of chocolate cake, the kind that makes one's tastebuds tingle with anticipation. In-between its five spongy layers is a thick creamy frosting that is so buttery and sweet it’ll ruin all other chocolate cakes in your future.   

            Lady_W: Oh no. Perhaps that isn’t the dessert for me then.

            One_Trek_Mind: Have no fear. There is a legend about this cake.

            Lady_W: What kind of legend? Does it come with a pot of gold? Perhaps it’ll make me grow smaller, to the size of a thimble.

            One_Trek_Mind: I hope not, you’re perfect as you are. No, this legend says the reason it ruins all other cakes is that it leaves behind its flavour on your lips. No matter how much you scrub, it’ll never truly go away. That’s why every other cake is bland in comparison.

            Lady_W: Then I definitely won’t partake. Being a bit of a chocoholic, I couldn't imagine a life without the comforting decadence of a good chocolate cake. A cake lacking flavour is an act of ultimate cruelty, don’t you think?

            One_Trek_Mind: But there is a way to alleviate the problem.

            Lady_W: Tell, so that I may avoid such a crisis.

            One_Trek_Mind: It has to be kissed off.

            Lady_W: Really? There is no other way?

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m afraid so. So…what’ll it be?

            Lady_W: You’ve sold it to me. I’ll take the chocolate cake and to hell with the consequences. But what about you? What are you having?

            One_Trek_Mind: I was hoping we could share. Aside from this one, all my other desserts contain fruit and other healthy stuff. My sweet tooth is calling for something deliciously wicked, something that will satisfy my deepest desires for a naughty treat.

            Lady_W: Sharing is fine with me. Please pass a fork, or a spoon, or are you one of those people that have those pretentious tiny forks that are only suitable for desserts?

            One_Trek_Mind: What’d you know? I’m all out of cutlery.

            Lady_W: What, even a set of chopsticks?

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m afraid so. I ate my spaghetti with The Countess and a pencil. You could always use your fingers?

            Lady_W: I see. So, if I were to take a smidge of that frosting on my finger and suck on it, you wouldn’t see me as barbaric?

            One_Trek_Mind: Barbaric, no. A master of seduction, perhaps. I need to see it to make a final judgement.

            Lady_W: How about I remove your shirt and tie, spread some on your chest, and then lick it off without my hands? How would that play out?

            One_Trek_Mind: Very sensible. Now I'll be the one who ends up messy while you’ll just contend with a sticky finger. But what about when it's my turn?

            Lady_W: What do you have in mind?

            One_Trek_Mind: Leave this one to me.

            One_Trek_Mind: To begin with, I'd unzip your dress, then smoothly remove the straps from your arms until they're free, allowing the dress to gather at your waist.

            One_Trek_Mind: You never told me if you’re wearing a bra, but in my mind, you’re not. You’re as free and bountiful as my mind can conjure. Full and luscious and more than my hands can hold.

            One_Trek_Mind: Your nipples look delicious; Blush pink and set off around a wash of creamy skin. But I can’t indulge in them just yet. I need to hold myself at bay. Be a good boy and wait for my dessert until the job is done.

            One_Trek_Mind: Like you, I gather a small dollop of that frosting on my finger and draw circles around one areola. It turns it a dark brown and glistens under the light, and the heat from your body ignites the scent of chocolate and fills the room.

            One_Trek_Mind: Oh, how I love the smell of Penelope and chocolate in the evening. The combination is quite heady and is making my mouth water.

            One_Trek_Mind: I repeat on your other breast and listen to your moans as I feel your nipple get harder under my finger.

            One_Trek_Mind: Now for the taste test.

            One_Trek_Mind: I engulf a nipple into my mouth and my entire body warms from the taste. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear your breathy moans, a hitch, then a sigh as I suck on the last granules of sugar sticking to your skin.

            One_Trek_Mind: Then I move on to the other nipple. I almost feel sorry for it, having to wait for its turn. I need to make up for it.  

            One_Trek_Mind: This time, I'm taking things slowly. One long lick, and as I do, I look up at your face. You’re watching me.

            One_Trek_Mind: You watch as I take your nipple into my mouth and such. You watch as I pull your breast free from my mouth, take another dollop of cake on my finger and slowly lift your dress.

            One_Trek_Mind: Your eyes flutter shut, and your head falls back. That’s right, you don’t need to watch this part. Only feel it.

            One_Trek_Mind: Well, look at that, you're naked here too. How convenient.

            One_Trek_Mind: Spreading your legs wide, I can see you fully. You’re pink and glistening and so fucking ready for me, but I haven’t finished my dessert yet.

            One_Trek_Mind: With the slightest touch, I drag my finger around your clit. Your engorged anatomy practically pulsates under my fingertip.

            One_Trek_Mind: Leaning in, I drag my tongue up your centre to your most sensitive part, and when my tastebuds touch the mix of chocolate and you, I see stars.

            One_Trek_Mind: No, they’re not stars. It’s heaven. This is the kiss the legend proclaims. It’s this taste that will ruin me.

            One_Trek_Mind: I wrap my arms around your thighs and pull you tighter into my mouth. Your moans amplify as my rhythmic lapping generates a rocking sensation.

            One_Trek_Mind: With a touch both tender and intense, your fingers thread through my hair, their grip so tight it borders on painful.

            One_Trek_Mind: The chocolate has long since gone, and now I’m left with only the taste of you, and I can’t get enough.

            One_Trek_Mind: I can feel your whole-body trembling, the tension radiating off you. You’re precariously close to the edge that even a minimal increase in suction will cause you to fall.

            One_Trek_Mind: So, I insert a single finger and reach for that delicate spot inside you. The moment I make a connection, your climax starts.

            One_Trek_Mind: Watching you shatter leaves me speechless, my mouth hanging open in astonishment. I’m speechless, captivated by your exquisite form and delicate features. Your back arches, your skin blushes, and your mouth falls open in a silent gasp. You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

As I open my eyes, all I can see is the stark, white expanse of the ceiling above me. Where am I?

I take a moment to collect myself, and when I finally realise what planet I’m on, I glance down and examine the state I’ve put myself in. My dress is hitched high on my thighs, and my hand is buried deep in my knickers. One strap of my dress is hanging loose at my elbow, exposing my left breast, and my nipple is as hard as a bullet. I look a mess.

As I sit here pondering, I can't help but wonder about the effect this man has on me even when he's not physically here, making me curious about the impact he would have over me if he were.

Gathering myself and smoothing my clothes, I yearn for this to be real, but a substantial part of me remains frozen with fear, clinging to the unshakeable belief that this is nothing more than a fabrication of some fancy words in a seedy chatroom. Would this really happen if he saw me? All five feet of me.

Perhaps I’m overthinking this. He probably lives on the other side of the country, and the chances of us meeting are as high as Captain Kirk taking a vow of celibacy.

Once again, the innocuous Host Profile tab catches my eye. This wasn’t here yesterday. A typical member of these rooms isn’t one to build an online bio—that’s what Facebook is for.

I scoff as my cursor hovers over the tab. I’m sure most of the details beyond this point have been auto filled, or he’s left it mostly blank. It’s not like Colin has submitted his full name or date of birth.

I take a deep breath and then click the tab.

“Oh, my God!”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A sudden coughing fit interrupts my scream as I accidentally breathe in some spit. After a full minute of hacking and coughing, tears streaming down my face, I finally manage to focus on the screen again.

He lives in fucking Cliveden!

The town that’s right next to mine. I could walk there if I wanted to. I’ve just never had the need… until now.

I bring up Google maps, zoom in, and place my forefinger on my current address and my thumb on Cliveden’s town centre. I examine the tiny space between my two digits by peering through the gap. He could be my next-door neighbour. Alright, I’m exaggerating a little, but it’s still bloody close.

Who knew an odd retro chatroom on the umpteenth page of Google would connect two people living within spitting distance of one another? What are the odds?

            One_Trek_Mind: Are you alright? You’ve gone quiet.

            Lady_W: I’m just reading your profile.

            One_Trek_Mind: I was wondering when you were going to look at that.

            Lady_W: So, it wasn’t an accident that you made it public? I thought it was against the rules to give out personal information.

            One_Trek_Mind: Not quite. Like I said, I paid for certain benefits to make this room more personal. They have my credit card information; a couple of other details after that weren’t too big of a deal. I didn’t have to divulge this information publicly either, but I ticked the box. I thought it was only fair.

            Lady_W: What do you mean by “fair”?

            One_Trek_Mind: I’ve known where you live for a while. You kinda let it slip.

It's completely unlike me to act so carelessly; however, I've noticed a trend where Colin seems to have a strange effect on my thought process, leading to flashes of doolalliness. The world could have ended while he was talking about licking my boobs, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Unexpectedly, a wave of nausea washes over me, leaving me feeling quite ill. I hope I didn’t disclose where I live to anyone else, especially Mr-fifteen-inch-jimmywang. I shudder at the thought.

            One_Trek_Mind: You’ve gone quiet, again. Are you recovering from your sugar rush or have you popped to the loo? Either way, I’ll wait.

I laugh. I needn’t worry. Nobody talks to me like Colin does.

            Lady_W: I'm curious now. Where did I tell you I’m from? Have you known all along?

            One_Trek_Mind: I was thinking about you one night when we weren’t chatting, and I needed to refresh my memory about what your costume looked like. I went on Spank You Very Much’s website and saw it isn’t a chain. There’s only one store in Grosvenor. I put two and two together.

            Lady_W: You couldn’t know where I live by just that. I could’ve driven there.

            One_Trek_Mind: Yes, you could have, and I could be completely wrong. But I couldn’t just come out and ask you. It would have been a little creepy. Plus, I just like the thought of you being close and not somewhere on the other side of the world.

            Lady_W: I guess it’s not that creepy, then. Do you know anything else about me?

            One_Trek_Mind: I promise, that’s all I know. But I put some other basic info on my profile that I thought you’d want to know. But if you want me to be your mysterious stranger, you don’t have to look.

            Lady_W: Hold, please.

Having those juicy details right at my fingertip is too tempting to waste. I click on the tab faster than I’ve ever clicked before.

                        HOST NAME: Colin Bridgerton

                        AGE: 26

                        LOCATION: Clivedon, UK

                        OCCUPATION: Teacher

                        EVENT: First date

                        CONTACT INFO: [email protected]

            Lady_W: I have a friend who’d kill me if I were to give you my email address.

            One_Trek_Mind: That’s where we differ.

            Lady_W: They don’t mind you giving out your deets to strangers in weird looking chatrooms?

            One_Trek_Mind: No. It’s not that.

            Lady_W: Oh, so they just don’t care?

            One_Trek_Mind: Let’s talk about something else.

            Lady_W: What? Aren’t they worried about you?

            One_Trek_Mind: I don’t talk about you.

“Why doesn’t he want to talk about me? What’s wrong with m…?”

 A nightly chill from months ago crawls up my spine. I can hear Debling’s laughter, like it was yesterday.

Light blinds me as Debling holds his phone in my face, recording the tears he helped to make. The burning of his assault on my stomach doesn’t feel as bad as the words coming out of his mouth. “Jiggle for me, Sweetie. I paid good money to see it.”

I try to slip past him and snatch my coat from a nearby puddle, but his reach is too vast and his steps too quick. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I cry.

“There’s nothing wrong with me…” Debling yells, his face turning red.

            One_Trek_Mind: Wait, that came out wrong. It’s not what you think.

Colin’s message pulls me from my memory, and the salty taste of old tears comes back to haunt me. Or are they real?

            Lady_W: You don’t know what I’m thinking.

            One_Trek_Mind: There’s a reason I said we should talk about something else.

            Lady_W: Yeah, I think I know exactly what that reason is.

            One_Trek_Mind: You’ve no idea, and I hope you never find out. For your sake. Now please, can we talk about something else?

            Lady_W: No, I don’t think we can.

            One_Trek_Mind: Then, perhaps we should call it a day.

            Lady_W: That’s a great idea.

He logs out, and the room suddenly feels seedy and unwelcoming. The bluebells, which were once so alluring, now evoke the opposite reaction in me. I close the personalised room and appear back in the old Smut Hut. I delete message after message of perverted loners trying to get into my pants, and stare at the chatroom with fresh eyes. Warped hermits grasp at a chance for a tasteless romp with anyone that’ll say hello.

It no longer appeals.

Picking up my mobile, I type out a message to the one person I know will be there for me without hesitation.

            Pen: I’m his dirty secret.

I forcefully swipe the back of my hand against my cheek, wiping away an angry tear.

           Pen: I can’t believe I fell for it. I even dressed up for him.

My anger intensifies with each word I type.

            Pen: I knew they were all the same.

            El: Stop torturing yourself. What did he say?

            Pen: Does it matter?

            El: Yes, it matters! Context matters!

I give her a brief explanation of the sequence of events, taking out the spicy stuff and just hitting her with the most important points.

            Pen: Do you think I overreacted now?

            El: Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. After what happened with Debling? Fuck, no. I don’t think you overreacted! 

            Pen: Good. How would you’ve reacted?

            El: If he said it to me? To a person who didn’t go through what you went through? I would have asked him why. You don’t know his justifications, just like he doesn’t know yours.

            Pen: Are you taking his side?

With a sigh, I power down my computer and slump onto the end of my bed, burying my face in my hands. After a moment, my phone rings, startling me.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Pen. You’re not in a teen drama. After we get back from the cinema tomorrow, talk with him like a pair of rational human beings. You have his email now, don’t you?”

“Shit, I didn’t write it down and I’ve just shut down my computer. I’m so stupid.”

“Pen, you are far from stupid. Just you wait, he’ll be back on that website tomorrow, and you’ll have a chat. Everything works out after a good night’s sleep. Now, have you any ice cream?”

“No. Cressida licked my last tub. I haven’t dared buy any since.”

“And I didn’t think I could hate that woman more. Do you want me to piss in her milk?”

“Nah, she’ll just swap it with mine.”

“Fine. But let me know if you change your mind. I’ll dig out the funnel just in case.”

Chapter Text

COLIN

I toss the first t-shirt I find over my shoulder. The delicate crinkle tells me my aim is true, and it’s landed on top of the carrier bag containing my new hiking boots. Even this minor victory isn’t enough to lighten my mood.

Leaving all my packing to the last minute wasn’t a big issue four hours ago when I was picking out a tie for Penelope and I’s date. I thought I’d be riding on a euphoric high, having ended it on a positive note. It would’ve given me the energy to pack sensibly for the school trip and be in bed at a reasonable hour. But things didn't end that way. Now I’m eight beers deep and selecting my twelfth pair of boxers in case I shit myself four times a day.

What's worse is that I didn't get a chance to tell Penelope I'd be away for three days and couldn't make it to our regular place tomorrow night. I gave her my email address so we could chat whilst I was away. Live chat on top of a mountain is impossible, but a few emails might pop through on the journey there and back if I’m lucky.

My jeans aren’t as fortunate as my t-shirt. They land behind my giant backpack, then slowly slide off the bed. It’s like they’re mocking my brief athletic talents. Instead of picking them up and packing them neatly into my bag, I give the clothes the finger and chug my beer, filling my cheeks to almost bursting. It’s now lukewarm, but it’s my last one. I guess it’s for the best. Eight beers on a school night is pushing it.

Staggering into the living room, I flop down at my desk and pick up a freshly cut stem. It took me ages to pick the right one. The woman behind the counter suggested roses for a first date, but those aren’t Penelope. I looked around the shop for about an hour, trying to find something unique but elegant. Then, when I’d almost given up hope and settled for a simple yellow tulip, I found them. Bluebells.

I wiggle my mouse from side to side, waking up my PC. An interstellar fight between the Borg and The Enterprise fills my screen. Usually the image makes me smile, but now only reminds me of a battle of my own. Other than the background, there are no icons for games or folders within folders. A clear desktop is a clear mind, I always think. However, a single icon has crept its way between one of those phaser beams, floating around on its own, safe in the void of space.

The file contains screenshots of my recent chats with Penelope. I’ve only ever used them for a little pick-me-up here and there. If I wake in the middle of the night with a hard on that won’t leave me alone, I’d open them and relive a story or two. I just never thought I would be petty enough to use them to clear up an argument.

I slam my beer onto the desk and smack both hands on my cheeks simultaneously. Not too hard that I leave a mark, but just enough to stop the room from spinning. I click on a file labelled with today’s date and read it aloud.

She was right; I was out of line, but my intention is still the same. Only now I understand I should have been calmer, clearer. Perhaps it's time to explain what happened with Marina and why I can’t trust my friends—my best friend at that. Finding George and Marina in bed together was painful, but the thought of Penelope succumbing to the same fate would be earth shattering. My other so-called friends kept George and Marina’s sordid little secret from me for months. I was the subject of their ridicule, as they laughed behind my back, making me the fool.

I close the file and open my browser. I hope Penelope is still there so that I can explain my side of the story, but it’s been hours since our fight. Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking that she’s stuck around.

Ladylike

LadyLover

LadyLovely

Lady_wonderful

Penelope’s handle isn’t amongst the throng of tonight’s miscreants. Even the look-a-likes, Lady_X, and Lady_Z are having the night off. Disappointed, I shut down my computer and attempt to hydrate myself with a large glass of water from the kitchen and return to my room. Anything else I own that’s warm or waterproof, I stuff into my bag and decide to call it a night. I just know Agatha is going to kill me when I turn up with a hangover in the morning.  

Suddenly, my phone lights up with a text. Speak of the devil.

             Sharon: I’ve just Googled the weather. Make sure you bring more than one jumper. It says there’s a storm coming.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PENELOPE

I’ve learnt my lesson: don't drink a jumbo pop five minutes into the film. But am I the kind of person who walks out of the screen to use the loo? Not in a million years.

I exit the toilet stall to find El sprawled on the counter between two sinks, picking at her nail polish and humming Waterfalls completely out of tune. Franny is disinfecting her hands and the bottom of her handbag with a wet wipe.

“So, we goin’ back to yours or ours?” El asks me while I finish washing my hands by her feet.

“Could I stay at yours for a few nights? Cressida is doing my head in.” I'm not telling them that the real reason for this sleepover is a desperate attempt to escape the lonely nights spent trapped in that awful chatroom. The endless chatter is nothing but a painful reminder that Colin hasn’t come back since our fight. Every night for the past two weeks I’ve only been doing two things; ignoring every private message and shaking my mouse so the website doesn’t timeout.

“What’s she done this time?”

Cressida has kept to herself, but I'll keep that quiet. I’ve only seen her once since the night her bouncer came over. She was going into the all-girls flat below us. If anything, I’m just surprised she has friends besides the guys she brings home.

“There is something I forgot to tell you.” Now how to word it? “I think Cressida might be a dominatrix.” That’ll do it.

The bathroom falls silent, then an explosion of snorts and laughter bursts from the pair. The cackling bounces off the tiled walls, and I’m sure the people sitting in screen 1 can hear. El rolls over and almost falls off the countertop. Franny bends over at the waist, clutching her sides as she gasps for air.

“No, seriously!” I shout over the noisy duo just as an old lady shuffles out of a cubical, pulling up her knickers and waltzing back out into the lobby without washing her hands. “This shy little fella came to the flat. He called Cressida, Mistress.”

“I can believe it. Cressida looks the type.” El says, wiping more tears from her eyes.

“But I think she overdid it, and he ended up breaking his finger. So, she called this other guy over. He was tall and wore a flat cap and trench coat. A proper creep.”

“He sounds like a flasher.”

“Anyway,” I brush off Franny’s comment. “I overheard them talking, and he knew about our old roommates and asked Cressida about me and why I’m still living there.”

“Well, that’s none of his fucking business.” A tremor of anger vibrates in El's voice. “You can live anywhere you want. Besides, you're not the one bringing home randos to spank.” Suddenly, her tone changes as she finds a magazine someone left on the counter. “Hey, it says here that bats, bears, and wolves participate in oral sex. Huh, who knew?”

Trust El, always able to change the subject at the snap of a finger.

“Ignore her, Pen.” Franny drapes her arm around my shoulder. “You can stay in my room if you like. I’ve got that blow-up mattress. But you’ll have to bring your sheets, towels, laundry detergent….” she ticks each one off a finger.

“Fran, she wants to get away from all that stressful shit. Pen, you’re staying with me.”

***

We huddle together on a small wall outside my apartment building while El finishes her ciggy. My bum’s going slightly numb from the damp brick.

The first round of partygoers are emerging. The chilly weather doesn’t have a chance against these lasses. Their stomachs lined with pre-drinks and greasy cheese toasties. It helps make their short skirts and spaghetti straps just as effective as a thick duffel coat.

“Right, I’m done. Can we go inside and pack a bag?” El says, her nose turning the same shade of fuchsia as her lipstick.

As I guide them toward the security gate, a sudden and unexpected hailstorm pelts the ground. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I want to go out again in this weather. Hey! It looks like you’ll be sleeping on my bedroom floor instead.” I say with a mischievous grin aimed in Franny’s direction.

“What? Don’t get too hasty.” Her face pales, her eyes darting around wildly as panic seizes her. “Can we just go inside for a cuppa and wait it out? I can call us a taxi.”

“Fine, but I’m putting on my jammies.”

We climb the stairs to my floor. “What’s that smell?” Franny presses two fingers against her nostrils.

“That might be us. We did just spend half an hour inside a public toilet.” El says.

“No. It smells more like someone died,” Franny pauses, then slaps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes bulge out of their sockets. “Maybe Cressida went too far this time?”

Taking them both by surprise, it’s me that’s the first to laugh. The sheer absurdity of it all finally smacking me in the face. I lead the way into my flat, then into my bedroom. “Damn, I left my computer on.” The Smut Hut’s home page turning my dark room red.

“Wait! Let’s have a go.” Franny barges past. “I haven’t seen it yet. What’s your username? Do you have a password?”

“Make up your own name.”

“But I don’t have time to establish a spicy status. Can’t I just hitch a ride on yours?”

With a sigh, I type in my username and enter the chat.

“What’s the W stand for?”

“Whistledown. It means to badmouth someone. I may have been thinking about Cressida when I thought of it. Or the musical was on the telly.”

“Shit, why is it so cold in here?” El says, bringing up the rear. “Is the window open?” She feels around the edges of my closed window. “There isn’t a draft. And these seals look pretty new.”

“It’s always been this way,” I say, letting out a lung full of air and deflating like a balloon onto my bed. “When I’m out for most of the day, the room gets cold.”

“You really need to talk to someone about that.” She then turns to her sister. “And Fran. You be careful on that site. You don’t want to end up talking to our brother.”

“Wait, your brother’s on here?” Well, this information is new. “But isn’t he like fourteen?

“No, he’s…”

“Holy shit!” Franny shouts. “There’s a guy called Dick_Wankerton.”

***

“Where is that ringing coming from?” I drag the duvet off my face—melted crumbs of a sneaky late-night chocolate bar sticking to my moist skin. I fling a heavy arm over the side of the bed and clumsily search for the source of my irritation. As soon as my fingers touch the smooth edges of the annoying fucker, it stops, only for it to start up again once I turn over and attempt to fall back asleep.

“Franny better be dying,” I answer as I rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Don’t be mad.”

The fear in El’s voice is unnerving. I’ve never heard her sound so worried before. My headboard bounces against the wall as I quickly sit up in bed. “What happened?”

“Well…”

“Spit it out.” I shout.

There’s a brief pause before El spills her concern in a whispered tone. “We logged on as Lady_W when we got home last night. We didn’t think it would hurt. We only wanted to use your reputation for one night. If your man had shown, we would have told him who we were, but he didn’t.”

I blow out a breath of relief. “Is that all?”

A faint ping rings in my ear. It’s a screenshot of a conversation sent through via text message.

            Marina: Do you know One_Trek_Mind?

            Lady_W: Who dis?

            Marina: Answer me!

            Lady_W: Hold on one second, Missy.  

            Marina: Are you trying to be cute?

            Lady_W: I don’t need to try.

            Marina: Answer my question. Do you know One_Trek_Mind?

            Lady_W: We meet many people on here, Hunny. Who’s asking, anyway?

            Marina: I’m his girlfriend.

After the third time reading El’s message, I put the phone back up to my ear. I can’t say anything, my mind still reeling. I listen to El’s erratic breathing for a few more seconds.

“I already knew about her.” The lie easily falls from my lips. “He told me from the beginning that he had a girlfriend.”

If I were to admit that I didn’t have a clue about Colin’s girlfriend, El would be supportive and would volunteer to kick his head in. But I don’t think I could handle the “I told you so,” from Fran. I just need a few weeks to get over him, and I’ll let them in on everything.

“Oh, thank God. We’ve both been up all night long thinking about this. We didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You needn’t have worried. I know what I’m doing.”

I hear Franny’s voice in the background, but I can’t tell what she’s saying. The buzzing in my ears is too overpowering.

“So, we’ll see you in a about five hours? I think they’ve moved our lecture to the Farris building.” El says, the usual chipper tone back in her voice.

“Erm… I’m not feeling too great today. I’m blaming us for sitting in that bathroom for too long. I’ll miss the lecture today. Could you take notes for me?”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

COLIN

Agatha’s head slips off my shoulder as she sleeps away the fourth hour of our journey home, her light snores hidden within the rumble of the coach engine and the prattle of sixty adolescents. Gently, I guide her floppy noggin back onto my shoulder, then return to my phone.

“You’ve been tapping on that thing the whole way,” Agatha says behind a loud yawn.

I clutch the front of my t-shirt, “Jesus Christ, woman!” My heart beating out of my chest. “How long have you been awake?”

“Oh, I’ve been drifting on and off most of the way.” Pulling out a small compact mirror from her handbag, she primps her appearance. The way she elegantly pats her hair and rubs away a smudge of lipstick with her pinkie finger almost makes me forget I’ve heard this woman piss in a tin bucket.

I’ve never been an outdoorsy guy, but as one of the younger members of the school faculty, I couldn’t say no to this trip. There are too many arthritic knees and replacement hips that can’t handle cold weather.

“Are we home yet?” Agatha asks while dabbing rouge on to the apples of her cheeks.

“Not yet. But guess what? We made the local paper.”

“Ooh, let me see.” She leans over the armrest as I open the local tabloid on my phone.

            Class trip extended due to unexpected weather.

A myriad of expressions cross her features as she reads the rest of the article. Joy turns into sadness, then fear, then satisfaction. I’m sure she read the part where she’s mentioned by name more than once.

“It’s alright, I suppose,” she concedes as she hands back the phone. “They need to work on the title, though. I would have said something like, School fights bear on mountaintop.” She waves her arms like she’s reading a billboard on Broadway.

“But we weren’t on a mountaintop for the whole two weeks, Agatha. And that bear wasn’t a bear. It was a badger. And a baby one at that.”

“It was still sixty kids stranded for two weeks and then attacked. You can’t spin that.” She pauses as she puts away her compact. “And what’s the Smut Hut?”

My stomach drops to the floor.

Did she say what I think she did? Glancing down, I see the website open on my phone. I hadn’t realised I’d opened it after reading the news. I flip the phone over and stare at the headrest directly in front of me. Perhaps if I act like I didn’t hear her, she might change the subject again.

“If it’s what I think it is…” she continues while giving me the side eye, “…there is a time and place for it.”

She’s not gonna keep going, is she? Bile burns my oesophagus. I can see my future as a schoolteacher slowly slipping away. What if she goes to the Head Teacher, or worse, the ethics board? I might as well move to Timbuktu and scrub toilets under a pseudonym. It doesn’t matter that I’m not engaging in any of the pop-up messages. I’m simply using it to get in contact with Penelope.

She either hates me after our argument or she didn’t write down my email. God, I hope it’s the latter. Even so, emails take so bloody long. I’ve only just got my signal back and if I were to reply to an email now, she might not get it for hours. I’ve never wanted Penelope’s phone number as badly as I do right now. A single text message would put my mind at ease and fast, and I could forget this blasted website once and for all. Just a little “I’ll be back” would have been enough to let her know I’m not sulking in a corner. Plus, the subtle movie reference would give me a few brownie points, too.

“Back in my day…”  

Oh, here we go. The dreaded lecture.

“…I did all sex talk in a hand-written letter. Much more personal, don’t you think?”

I’ll update my CV tonight. Maybe they’ll let me continue until the end of term? Maybe I’ll… wait a minute. What did she say?

I turn my head and stare, stumped for words.

“This explains why you’re so coy when I ask about your love life. So, have you met anyone? Or is it free game in there?” She points to my phone.

“I-I met someone. Her name’s Penelope.”

Her face lights up. I can already see wedding bells behind her eyes. “You have? Oh, my sweet boy.”

“Well, we haven’t met in person.” I add, and suddenly, those bells ring flat. 

“Tell me about her?” Agatha turns her whole body in my direction and crosses both her arms and legs.

I’m hesitant at first. Keeping all the dirty stuff to myself is more for my sanity than it is for her, but I still indulge her with the SFW version of how we met. I couldn’t look her in the eye Monday morning if she knew I have a Star Trek fetish. 

“So that’s why you look so tired in a morning? You’re up all night talking.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I don’t go to bed.”

“Is that the reason you looked so tired when you arrived for this trip?”

I don’t answer her but simply look down at my phone instead. The inactivity setting has already kicked me from the site.

“Did you two have a fight?” Agatha asks when the silence stretches out.

“How can you tell?”

“Love, it’s written all over your face. Why didn’t you say anything? You know, people call me the Love Guru in the staff room. Plus, it would have eaten some time up. I mean, how many times can we talk about my Herman’s gout?”

“I couldn’t say anything, not with Nick within earshot.”

She turns around in her seat and glances down the aisle to the back of the bus. “Nick is out like a light. You’re safe. Now spill it.”

With slight reluctance, I bring up the last screen shots I sent to my phone two weeks ago. I could almost quote them line by line, having read them every night since.

As she reads, I can't help but fidget with my hands. She remains completely unreadable, offering no insight into her thoughts or feelings. I turn and stare out of the window. The crisp snow has vanished in exchange for grey slush and litter.

“Ouch! What was that for?” I rub my arm. Agatha’s left hook is unusually strong for someone of her age.

“I haven’t trained you to be such a…a…dickhead.” The last word, she whispers.

“What did I do?”

“You told her she’s your dirty little secret and you don’t want any of your friends to know about her.”

“No, I didn’t. I don’t want her to meet my best friend because the last time I introduced him to my girlfriend; he slept with her.”

“You need to tell her that, because what you said here…” She holds up my phone, “…isn’t what you just told me.”

***

My front door has never felt so heavy, the lock so stubborn, the hinges so rigid. It takes the last of my energy to pull my backpack off my shoulders and drop it on the floor. I hope my neighbours aren’t in. The clang of the metal pans inside the flimsy nylon is enough to wake the dead.

Sleeping on uneven patches of frozen grass, then the floor of an old lady’s kitchen, will make me think twice about volunteering again in the future. I’m a hair’s breadth from throwing out my back as I stumble into my living room. If it wasn’t for Agatha’s handmade crocheted thingamajig padding my thin sleeping bag, I’d be crawling towards my bathroom on hands and knees.

The Headteacher gave Agatha and I the rest of the week off. It’s the nearest to compensation we’re going to get. But consider how tired we were, we took the offer with a smile and a handshake.

My king size bed is waiting for me, with its foam mattress and orthopaedic pillows, plump and billowy. But first, I need a shower. While we were incredibly grateful to the lady who rescued us from the snowstorm, she expressed profuse apologies for the lack of hot water in her secluded cottage. What little she had I couldn’t take from her, or the other members of staff, or the sixty kids all covered in mud. By the time it was my turn, the roads had cleared, and the rescue party had arrived.

Leaving a trail of clothes behind me, I head into my bathroom. I wash everything twice at the highest temperature I can tolerate. Top to toe. Inside and out. The moment I finish, I collapse onto my bed, but instead of feeling the soft mattress I’ve been longing for, I’m hit with a bony knee to my eye socket.

My quick reaction jars my already tender joints and fragile back. I scream at the top of my lungs; the pain searing through me.

“Why didn’t you turn the light on, silly?”

Pain or no, I jump from the bad, clutching my towel tightly around my waist.

“Here, let me do it.” The voice says with a slight hint of a giggle. The light beside my bed switches on, and the warm glow coats Marina’s near naked form. It’s just my limited-edition Galaxy Quest vest that covers her. One that I now plan on burning.

She doesn’t look that much different from when I last saw her. Perhaps a little thinner? Maybe her hair is a little darker, longer? What I know for certain is the feelings I once had for her are long gone. And I don’t mean love. No, that went the moment I saw her and George in bed together. What I see now is the absence of hate. I don’t hate this woman, but that still doesn’t mean I like her. I don’t particularly like anyone that breaks into my apartment and makes themselves at home.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I shout as Marina sits up in bed.

“I thought it would be nice if I waited here for you when you got home. You should have been back days ago. What happened?”

“I’m calling the police.” I don’t to answer her questions or chit-chat.

“What? Why?” Her perplexed look is pissing me the fuck off.

My scattered clothing makes it difficult to find my phone, but eventually I retrieve it from inside my hoodie’s joey pouch. It’s only three digits I need to dial, but with my hands shaking with adrenalin, it takes a couple of attempts before I get it right.

“Wait. What are you doing?” She jumps out of my bed and lunges for the phone. Luckily for me, she’s a lot shorter and her reach isn’t as far.

“I just told you. I’m calling the police.”

“No, please don’t. I’ll go, but first can we talk? Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

I take a step back and visually search her from a distance. In just a vest, I doubt she’s carrying that knife she sold from my old flat. It’s strange to suddenly think of her as someone that could do physical harm. I’ve never seen her behave in such a way, but then again, I never thought she’d be the type to cheat.

Not taking my eyes off her, I move to the other side of the bedroom and sit on a single chair in the corner. “You have two minutes.”

“Look, I know what I did was awful, but I’m not like that anymore. I still love you.” She drops her gaze and wanders over to the bed, then pats the mattress next to her. She’s got to be fucking joking.

“I was in an awful place…” she says.

Bullshit.

“You were never there for me…”

Really?

“George was very persuasive…” she continues.

George couldn’t find a tit if he was sucking on a nipple.

She takes a moment to dry her eyes. I’ve seen her cry many times before—to a sad movie, or when her auntie died. She would be all snot-nosed and puffy, and her ears would go red. Then, after a couple of minutes, the hiccupping would start. But these tears are calculative. Something I’ve also seen before. Timed to arrive at the precise moment after she’s finished talking. She even leaves one tear to trickle delicately down her cheek. If this isn’t manipulation. I don’t know what is.

“I just want to go back to how things were. You know how sorry I am, right?” Marina finally hangs her head when she sees I’m not budging. This part looks sincere enough, but she’s far too late. I don’t want to go back. I’m not the same person either. It’s nice to hear an apology, however insincere.

After a few moments of silence, I feel a small pang of guilt as I look at her slight frame and quivering shoulders. Perhaps I wasn’t there for her the whole time. Perhaps she had things going on that I didn’t know about. Despite all that, I didn’t deserve to be cheated on. Lied to.

“I’m sorry, too.” Is it half-hearted? Maybe a little, but I’m done. I just want her gone from my house. My life. 

Marina lifts her head, a sparkle of possibility in her eyes. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

Hope is a wonderful thing, but I don’t want Marina to believe we might get back together. It’s time to nip this in the bud, tear off the plaster, and finish this once and for all. I don’t want her to get confused with a technicality. I can just see it now. “You never said you didn’t love me. You never said we’ll never be together again.”

I move closer and sit on the edge of the bed. “Marina…” Taking a deep breath, I turn towards her “…forgiveness isn’t as black and white as that. Can I forget what happened? No. Do I hate you? No. Do I still love you? Sorry, I don’t.”

She takes a sharp intake of breath and covers her mouth.

“Too much has happened between us.” I continue. “I think it’s best if we just move on. A fresh start is what we both need.”

A tear trickles down her face, but this time her ears turn pink. I feel like giving her a hug, but I hold back. I don’t want to give her the wrong impression, plus I’m only wearing a towel.

There’s a long silence between us. I suppose she’s finally taking it all in. I’ve had over a year to handle the break-up, but this is new to her. If she’s been living in a dreamworld for this long, I guess it’s hard to wake up.

“I’m pregnant!”

It doesn’t surprise me in the least that she would try this with me. I’m a family man and would love to have children one day, but I don’t need to be a genius to know I’m not the dad. “I think George will make a great father.”

“It’s because of her, isn’t it?” She suddenly looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. It’s a mixture of hatred and… is she going to vomit? “Were you seeing her when we were together? Is she the reason you’re saying all this?”

I feign ignorance. She can’t know about Penelope. She just can’t. “Who?” I ask, but I already know.

“Penelope! I’ve seen the things you’ve been talking about. You’re sick, do you know that?” Her eyes suddenly grow wide. “Wait, do you want me to talk like that? Because I can you know. George loved a little dirty talk.” She slaps her hand over her mouth.

I stand from the bed and point to the bedroom door. “Get out!”

“No. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t mention George again.”

I tighten the towel around my waist as I stomp into the living room. Yanking the front door open with such force, it creates a breeze that blows open my towel. My neighbour’s doorbell camera is at the perfect angle to get a good eyeful.

“I walk into the room and take off my clothes.” Marina says as she saunters into the living room, grasping her vest by the hem. “I bite my lip as I look you in the eyes.”

Her words make me cringe deep down into my soul. How does it sound so different coming from her? I hope to God I don’t sound like this when I’m talking to Penelope.

“Keep it.” A foreign coat hangs by the door. “Here.” I throw it in her direction.

She puts it on with a huff, picks up her handbag from beside the sofa and walks out. Just before I close the door, I hear. “I’m not giving up on you yet.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PENELOPE

“Fuck it!” I stamp my foot and march over to my computer with a new sense of bravado.

            Lady_W: Hi

            Malelooking4fun: Hey there.

            Lady_W: How are you?

            Malelooking4fun: Horny as fuck. How about you?

The fluidity of my retorts is dry. I’m out of touch, and it shows. Usually, I can bounce off whatever they tell me. Work my magic to create something epic. If he wants big tits, then I’ll give him mammoth mommy milkers that he could get lost in. Why does this feel so weird?

If my quick wit is nowhere to be seen, I guess I can always try the direct approach? This is uncharted territory for me, as I prefer casual banter, but I guess I’ve been the recipient of a more candid approach before, and it hasn’t hurt.

            Lady_W: What are you into?

            Malelooking4fun: You, if you’ll let me.

I cringe at his response. That’s something a teenager would say when joking with his friends. I’m uncertain whether to carry on. His naïve response would have been a red flag months ago. Colin would never have said….

No, no, no. I’ve thought this through, moving on is the best thing for me. I need to get him out of my head.

            Lady_W: Come here often?

            Malelooking4fun: Got cam?

            Lady_W: Can we talk first?

            Malelooking4fun: You know cam is so much better than typing.

I swipe my sweaty palms on my thighs.

            Lady_W: It’s just not my thing.

            Malelooking4fun: What’s there to be scared of?

            Lady_W: Who said anything about being scared? It just feels weird to me.

            Malelooking4fun: Fuckin prude. I don’t have time for this.

He disconnects the chat before I have time to reply. Wow, I never thought someone would call me a prude.

My knee bounces under my desk, and the urge to nibble my fingernails is as intense as ever. Let’s try this again. I’m just off my game, that’s all.

I rotate my neck and roll my shoulders; the tension easing, but it’s still there in some places. I glance through the list and look for a name, but this time, not just any name will do. I need someone to ease me back into my old ways, fiddle around until things return to the right places.

TwentySomethingMummy’sBoy sounds like someone that’ll do the job. Before I know it, I’ll be playing with the bigger boys, and Colin will be nothing but a distant memory.

            One_Trek’s_Mine: What are you doing here?

I push back from my desk as the pop-up message takes me by surprise.

He’s back!

The rush of relief I feel is overwhelming. Finally, after two weeks of nothing, we’ll get to talk. We can both say our peace, even though I’m not entirely sure why. I laugh at the absurdity of it all. Jen was right. Colin doesn’t know about my past, and now I have the chance to explain it all to him.

I place my fingers on the keys, but then pause when I see the alteration in the name. Only a few differences, but they’re there. Though clever, the name suddenly raises my hackles.

“The sneaky Bitch.” I say under my breath. With nothing left to lose, I don’t hesitate to reply, hitting the letters with such force I fear I might crack my keyboard. “Who does she think she’s talking to? I was here first.”

            Lady_W: That’s none of your business.

            One_Trek’s_Mine: I told you to stay away from here.

I gather El omitted some of the earlier conversation where Colin’s girlfriend threatened me to stay off the chat. I can only wonder what else they said to each other that El didn’t screenshot. If I haven’t seen it, I guess it wasn’t pretty.

            Lady_W: That’s not going to happen.

            One_Trek’s_Mine: He’s not interested. Get your sick kicks from someone else. Some random saddo with mummy issues.

            Lady_W: What’s wrong with you? You don’t kink shame in here. Mummy and Daddy issues are the backbone of this community.

            One_Trek’s_Mine: You’re here to see Colin. I’m not stupid.

            Lady_W: I beg to differ. You know how this place works, right? If he’s not here, how am I supposed to talk to him?

As soon as I hit enter, it hits me. A sly smirk pulls at my face and my bouncing knee stills. I have a feeling Colin, and his so-called girlfriend aren’t as close as she’s making them out to be. I wonder if I can roll a persuasion check and see just how much I can get out of her.

            Lady_W: So, what has he told you about me?

            One_Trek’s_Mine: He’s told me all I need to know.

“More like, fuck all.” This woman has no hold over Colin, and she knows it.

            Lady_W: Come on, spill.

            One_Trek’s_Mine: Here’s a message from Colin. Get off this chatroom. Now shut up!

“What are we…twelve? Come on, girl. Try a little harder.”

            Lady_W: Can’t he tell me himself?

            One_Trek’s_Mine: I’m telling you.

            Lady_W: Ooh, temper, temper.

I never thought I’d have the nerve to talk in this way. I wonder if I could have a long-overdue heart-to-heart with Cressida like this? Tapping a finger to my lip, I reflect it over the possibility.

“Nah.”

            Lady_W: He still owes me one, if you know what I mean?

            One_Trek’s_Mine: Watch it.

            Lady_W: Or what, you’ll type a strongly worded letter?

            One_Trek’s_Mine: Well, I’m in his bed when he’s had enough of you. You’re simply a light bit of entertainment.

It’s a little hypocritical of me to be offended at being called “light entertainment” but maybe I am? I’ve judged everyone in this place as just that. Every single last one of them has done nothing but entertain me. Well, all except for Colin, that is.

I must admit, he did at first. Sex was his way in, but his humour, kindness, and general warmth kept me here. As time went on, I found myself increasingly longing for the precious moments we had shared. Checking the time to see if it’s inappropriate to log into a sex chat room in the middle of the day. After a while, I was interested in so much more.

He made me feel like I was someone worth knowing. Even if he has a girlfriend or not, I can at least be thankful for that.

            Lady_W: Look, he hasn’t spoken to me in weeks.

            One_Trek’s_Mine: Exactly. Why would he want something online when he could have the real thing?

“Alright. I get it. You’ve made your point.”

I shutdown my computer without replying and go to bed still wearing the clothes I’ve been wearing all day.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY

A dusting of confetti surrounds my table as I trim magazine layouts and mount my final designs on crisp white card. It’s times like these when Franny’s fastidiousness comes in handy. If I’m one millimetre off centre, she’ll set me straight with a gasp and a clutch of her pearls.

With barely three months left until the end of our degree, the room is bustling with activity. I haven’t seen this many of my fellow designers since the beginning of the year. Now they scurry around like a pack of wild dogs, begging their lecturers for that one last meaty piece of advice before they’re cut off and left to fend for themselves with the examiners.

It doesn’t take long for El to find Fran and me huddled in a small corner of the room. Her chunky platforms and tall frame propel her above the high wooden slats that divide groups of tables into our own little workspaces.

“I’ve brought ya something back from my travels, Pen.”

Having just got back from a trip visiting her parents, El’s stride is a little less bouncy than usual. She hates skipping Uni with so much work left to do, but they insisted she couldn’t get out of it. It was her turn for a visit as Fran went last week, and the week before that.

“What did you get me?” I say as I rub my hands together like some kind of supervillain about to unearth an evil plan.

“It’s a haggis.” El holds the bag out to me, but suddenly, some form of paralysis affects my limbs, and I can’t extend my arm to accept it. The pungent stench coming from the innocent-looking carrier bag is anything but delicious. “Me ma made a few before I left. I told her you’d never tried it. So, she made you one. Wasn’t that nice of her?” Her smile is all teeth but no warmth.

“Great.” I try to hide the thin veil of disgust lacing my voice. Perhaps the odour will be more pleasant once it’s cooked. Or better still, forgotten in the back of my freezer. “Wait a minute,” I say, pointing in Franny’s direction—her amusement at my revulsion swiftly ends. “Where’s her haggis?”

“Oh, mum knows Fanny doesn’t like it.”

“It was that easy?” I whisper to Franny.

“She’s gonna send a couple more with my brother when he visits the campus next month.”

“I remember you mentioned something about Gregory coming here next year. He wants to do… computer games design?” I ask.

“No, photography.” El corrects me. “The poor sod thinks he’s gonna photograph nude models in his first term.” She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. It’s the only subject he’s taken the slightest interest in. Anyway, did you alphabetise my nail polishes while I was away?” She eyes Franny, then turns to me and asks, “And have you spoken to your friend yet? Talked things through?”

Of course, she wants to talk about Colin. I can feel El’s eyes burning a hole in the top of my head as I work. I wish she’d stop looking at me; these borders around my printouts are hard to cut in a straight line as is.

“Will you drop it? He has a life, you know. And I’m not the centre of it.” Residual hurt from the chat with his girlfriend coats my stomach. “So, no, I haven’t spoken to him. Just as well, I think I’ve gone off the idea of online relationships.”

“Haven’t you looked him up on Facebook yet? Once you see what he looks like, you might change your mind?” Franny wiggles her eyebrows at me. “I could look him up for you. I know how you avoid social media after what happened with Debling. What’s his name?” Franny’s eager fingers tap away on her laptop.

“No, please don’t bother.”

“Why? What’s changed?” El stares at me, her brow drawn down.

“Really, it’s nothing. Don’t give me that look.” El’s stare intensifies. “Alright! His girlfriend contacted me...”

I jump when they both simultaneously stand and begin packing up their things. Their chairs topple over, creating loud bangs that garner a few nasty looks from the surrounding students. “Come. We’re going home,” El declares. Franny is already halfway packed.

They rush out of the studio with me following ten paces behind. Our sketch pads bundled under our arms, and the haggis forgotten beneath the table.

***     

“Ha, here he is! One Trek Mind!” El shouts.

“Trust me, that isn’t him. He hasn’t been on there for over two weeks. That’s probably his girlfriend’s user ID. I bet she’s monitoring the names so I don’t log back on,” I tell them from a beanbag on the other side of El’s large bedroom. “I almost fell for the name change, too. They’re so similar.”

“Hey, shithead!” El says, completely ignoring me. “What do you think you’re…. Oh.” She cuts off her words when an incoming message pings and beats her to the punch.

With a sigh, I roll out of the bag, and on hands and knees crawl over to the desk. Am I ready for round two so soon? Well, at least I have back-up this time.

            One_Trek_Mind: Penelope! Thank God you’re back!

It is him!

            Lady_W: Before you say something you might regret, this is Pen’s best-friend. At last, we meet.

            One_Trek_Mind: Oh, is Pen there? I really need to talk to her.

“He says he wants to talk to you.” Her shoulders hunch over as she quickly types her last goodbyes. “You better be on your knees while you’re begging for forgiveness. I swear if I ever get a hold of….”

“That’s enough. I’ll take it from here.” I push El and her chair out of my way and kneel in front of the computer. Even the soft cushion of El’s carpet beneath my knees isn’t enough to make me feel comfortable about this situation. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My palms are already sweaty as I touch my fingertips to the smooth white keys. But first, I delete the threat El was in the middle of typing.

Regardless of if I want answers or not, Colin doesn’t owe me anything. It’s taken awhile but I get it now. We both came to the table as strangers, and we still are. However, I’d be happy to clear a few things up.

            Lady_W: Yes?

            One_Trek_Mind: Pen, is that you?

            Lady_W: Yeah.

I’m being harsh, but I can’t help it. Lingering hurt is a bitch to get rid of. 

            One_Trek_Mind: Marina told me she spoke to you.

Ah yes. Now I remember her name on the screenshot El sent me. So, now I can confirm her name and match it with her charming personality. Marina? Yeah, I don’t like it.

            Lady _W: She seems…lovely.

            One_Trek_Mind: You sure we’re talking about the same person?

            Lady_W: Well, she seemed to know you. She was gracious enough to tell me I was nothing more than a plaything. I’m paraphrasing, of course.

            Lady_W: Oh, and I shouldn’t talk to you. She was pretty insistent on that one.

            One_Trek_Mind: No! Wait! Marina isn’t my girlfriend. She’s my ex. We had a messy breakup last year, and she’s having a bit of a hard time taking no for an answer.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. I’ve been away, with no signal. Shitty excuse, I know. I’ll tell you about it all later.

            Lady_W: No. Tell me now. I’m not going anywhere.

I’m tired of waiting. I want my answers now, or not at all.

Turning to look behind me, I noticed El and Fran are both glued to their phones. It's clear that they're texting back and forth about me, a constant flurry of messages shown by the rhythmic beeping of their phones. I’m thankful for the respect they're showing me by allowing me to have some much-needed privacy. No matter how much they’re dying to know what’s going on.

Colin sends me a link to an article from a small rag published somewhere in Scotland. The details are only a couple of paragraphs long, but I get the gist. He’s been stuck in the mountains for two weeks. Oh, and the story comes with a picture.

The caption beneath reads:

            Mrs. Agatha Danbury and Mr. Colin Bridgerton oversee packing for their long-awaited trip home.

            One_Trek_Mind: Talk about bad timing, right?

The photo that accompanies the article is a candid shot of a small group of young teens in a rustic kitchen. Stuffing their backpacks with unfolded hoodies and damp tracky bottoms. The expensive logos hidden beneath layers of muck and grime, and other stuff I daren’t think about. Yet, their smiles shine, knowing they’re finally on their way home.

I’m about to click off the picture when see it. A rolled-up sleeve exposing a masculine forearm of someone much taller than the typical year-eight.

Is that him?

Why is it suddenly so warm in here?

I lean closer and inspect every hair, pore, and freckle of the floating limb. All I need is an inkling that this is the same person I’ve been talking to, and not some propaganda that’ll support his supposed absence. Just how many Colin Bridgerton’s are there in Cliveden? It’s funny how I never noticed he shares the same last name as El and Fran. There must be Bridgeton’s everywhere. What are the chances they’re distantly related? I guess that’s something I can ask another time. Right now, we have bigger things to talk about.

As my eyes travel along the length of his appendage for the millionth time (I can’t help it. It’s a lovely forearm), he sends me a message. He explains how they got stranded on a mountain without a signal and then found salvation in a lovely old dear that took in sixty teenagers and four teachers in her cottage in the middle of nowhere.

            One_Trek_Mind: I hope you’re sitting down.

            Lady_W: What? Why?

            One_Trek_Mind: When I got home, I found Marina in my bed.

Did the floor just open and swallow me whole? I feel sick, cold, a little lost. She wasn’t lying. She was waiting for him in his bed, just like she said she does. Well, at least I didn’t have to hear her gloat about it.

But didn’t he say they broke up last year?

            One_Trek_Mind: She’s unstable. She broke into my flat and went through everything I own. I don’t know how long she made herself at home. I’ve even had to check for cameras.

            Ah, now I get it.

            One_Trek_Mind: She went through my computer while I was away and found out about you.

            Lady_W: What do you mean? Do you have a file on me or something?

            One_Trek_Mind: I’ve saved a few of our conversations. They were too good to waste.

You can do that? Damn, if I’d known, I’d have done the same thing. Perhaps he can send them to me. I can print them off and create my own Love Book. I can finally show El that I’m not all talk and show her a thing or two for a change.

Wait, we can’t send things to each other.

What if I…

            Lady_W: [email protected]

            One_Trek_Mind: What’s this?

            Lady_W: You need to send me copies. Plus, it might come in handy the next time you’re stuck on top of a mountain. Don’t forget to write it down like I did.

            One_Trek_Mind: Damn, I’ve missed you.

Is it weird I can’t discern Colin’s voice from any other man in the entire world? Yet, when I read these words, it’s almost like he’s sitting next to me. The timbre, the resonance, the sharp exhale before he clenched his jaw on the word “damn”.

Down, girl!

            Lady_W: She’s the reason you don’t tell your friends about me.

            One_Trek_Mind: To them I’m nothing but a bad boyfriend who deserved it. When I left her, I left them all behind. Friends would have given me the chance and heard me out.

            Lady_W: She got to them first?

            One_Trek_Mind: No. He got to them first. George was my best friend. Two against one. I didn’t stand a chance. Luckily, they never got to my family.

            Lady_W: With friends like that…

            One_Trek_Mind: Since moving away, I’ve had trouble meeting people. My sister told me about the website. She’s a little weird, that one. Trust isn’t something I give away so freely anymore. It’s why I liked the hut. No friendships. No worries.

            Lady_W: You don’t think it’s too old-fashioned? You don’t hear many people use chatrooms nowadays.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Plus, the Star Trek porn I’ve seen sucks ass. I wanted to make up my own narrative. And that’s where your uniform comes in.

“What uniform?”

I jump back and fall haphazardly to the floor, the ache in my knees suddenly apparent. Two smirking faces look down at me. Their eyes are glistening with intrigue.

“We didn’t read the whole thing, just the last message.” Franny admits, red faced.

“That’s what was in that Spank You bag I saw in your bin, wasn’t it?” El says.

Without answering El’s probing question, I reach over and type.

            Lady_W: Hey!

            One_Trek_Mind: Yeah?

            Lady_W: We’re not alone!

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The continuous drone coming from my lecturer and the over-active central heating has caused my mind to soften. My cranial void has somehow doodled a cock and balls riding a pony in the bottom right-hand corner of my notebook. As I look upon my masterpiece, I’m impressed with the level of detail from only a ballpoint pen.

I’m sandwiched between El and Franny, smack bang in the middle of the lecture theatre. I'm stuck, with no chance of escape. Lifting my heavy-lidded eyes, I scan the room, hoping to find that special something that might rouse me from my coma. There's nothing, not even a window to mark the passage of time. The months. The years. Because that’s how long it feels like I’ve been in here.

My gaze drifts to my two best friends to find them busy multitasking. As they both take notes, El adds another coat of nail polish, and Fran is ROY-G-BIVing her coloured pencils.

With a huff, I retrieve my phone from inside my bra cup; and like some kind of cosmic force pulling my fingers back and forth, I open my emails. That lustful tingle comes crawling up my spine when I think about Colin and me going back to our old ways, but this time with the added spice of doing it in email form.

Once Colin explained his need to hear about my uniform one more time, I quickly logged off the chat, removed myself from El’s bedroom, and hurried home. Did I sit in my uniform for three hours last night talking to Colin? Maybe. Did Cressida bang on my wall twice because of the noise I was making? Perhaps.

A bony elbow jabs into my ribs, almost knocking the phone out of my hands. With one of her classic annoyed expressions, Fran pushes her specks back up the bridge of her nose and prods her pen towards the front of the class.

Too scared to go against her strict stance on paying heed, I simply roll my eyes and stuff my phone back into my bra. “Happy?” I ask her.

“You won’t be if you don’t get a passing mark on your next essay.” She whispers back, but not quietly enough. A couple of heads turn around and glare in our direction. The attention causes Franny’s cheeks to redden, so she rips out a full page of notes and slides it towards me. “Catch up.”

“Can I borrow those after you? I just spilt nail varnish on mine.” El’s voice drifts into my other ear. “What?” She says as soon as she sees the glower coming from her sister.

“You two are the worst.” Fran chides.

“Pen’s right, though. We’ve done it already, and I can’t see a thing. How does he expect us to take notes when he writes so dinky?”

“Well, next time, sit closer to the front. You don’t see me having a problem.” Once more, Fran adjusts her glasses.

“When you’re all finished….” All three of us jump as our lecturer’s voice assaults our ears. “Can we please get back to my lecture?” 

A collective “Yes, sir” ripples over us as we bury our faces in our papers.

“Today, we’re examining the life and works of typographer Stanley Morison,” Professor Beaufort addresses the room. His commanding baritone pulls the rest of the audience back to the front of the class. “We’re especially taking close attention to his renowned and celebrated typeface. More specifically, his work on the letter E.”

“Again?” El utters between yawns. The action is contagious, and before we know it, a Mexican wave of stifle yawning covers the crowd. “We deffo did E last week.”

“Don’t you just love his execution? Personally, it’s one of my favourites,” Professor Beaufort chuckles, oblivious to his sleepy onlookers, “It is a phenomenal piece of artistry…”

“Is it me, or is he getting his rocks off talkin’ about the letter E?” El whispers in my ear.

“Yeah, I think he has a font fetish.” I hide my mouth behind a hand while El silently gives me a round of applause for my little quip.

            Ding!

“Shit,” I say as all faces turn in our direction, including a pinched look from the front of the class. I hurriedly search my bra, mumbling apologies to anyone that can hear.

“Please, could you turn off your phones? I’ve already asked nicely this morning. If I see anyone texting, you’ll all receive a zero in the next assignment.” He’s aiming his irritation directly at me.

“Remember when he once threw his own phone across the room after it rang?” El snickers as she leans over my panicked form.

“Hurry and turn that thing off!” Fran’s voice reaches me as I finally feel the blasted thing. I silently curse the unknown magazine subscription that got through the spam filter.

            Inbox (1)        

            Sender: Colin Bridgerton

            Subject: Testing, testing.

A peculiar giggle-bubble erupts from my inners at the sight of his name in such a foreign place. Luckily it’s not loud enough to steal Professor Sesame Street from his ménage à trois with the letter E and the new girl in town, the semicolon. Rearranging my books, pencil case, and a bottle of water, I make a small den on my desk. Beneath the stationary, I hide from view, creating a little world with nothing in it but me and Colin’s email.

            My dearest Penelope.

            You’re probably cursing my inappropriate timing, but I couldn’t resist playing with your little gift. Sending you an email is like riding a brand-new bike on Christmas Day.

            It’s strange this method of communication. To know you’ll get my thoughts throughout the day rather than having to wait until the evening. However, I’ve enjoyed the anticipation pending your arrival when I’ve logged on too soon. The thrill of seeing your name popping up, followed by a friendly “Hello”, would brighten my day. But now I want more, and I want to ramble a little. So please indulge me.

            Let’s get right down to business, shall we? I’m lounging on my sofa with an erection.

I spring out from under my den, my eyes wide as dinner plates. The unexpected appearance of a full-on boner has caught me by surprise since there was no prior foreplay.

Arching my back and stretching my arms wide, I subtly glance around the room and study my fellow students. I’m looking for that one set of eyes pointing in my direction, ready to snitch.

            You mentioned you had a lecture today. And yet, I’m certain you couldn’t wait to read this email after it was all done. Self-centred of me, I know, but we’re the same, and I’d do it too. The temptation lurking behind a simple click of a button is too appealing.

            Are you in the back of the theatre, alone, surrounded by empty chairs?

            No, I don’t think you are. I think your friends are on either side of you, taking notes and looking over your shoulder, eager to see what has suddenly caught your attention.

“Hey,” Even at such a whispered level, Franny’s voice takes me by surprise. “Put your phone away. You’re going to get us all into trouble.”

I shrug her off and go back to the email.

            The lights dim for a presentation…

Suddenly, the lights in my real world do the same. It’s like he knew.

               … and the professor turns on an overhead projector…

A beam of light shines above me, projecting the title of an 80’s documentary entitled “Times New Roman, and its uses.”

            Anything could happen in the dark, and the whiny twat at the front wouldn’t even notice. But don’t worry because I’m here, right beside you.

“Why are you looking around?” El asks.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Never mind.” I shake my head and laugh it off. Of course, he isn’t beside me.

My screen becomes glaringly apparent to the people surrounding me as it blasts its light from under my den. The chance of being caught is more of a certainty now that the lights are off. I dim down my phone until I can scarcely see the words inches from my nose.

That’s better. I take a breath of relief and continue.

            What if I put my hand on your thigh? Under the table and out of sight. Slowly stroking it with an occasional squeeze to keep your skin hypersensitive to my touch.

            I hope you’re not ticklish.

            No, wait…I want you to be ticklish.

            I want you to feel that tickle. On your thigh, your knee, between your legs. I need this tickle to drive you crazy, but I won’t let you scratch it. Breathe through it, Penelope. Let it eat away at you.

El kicks off her shoes and rests her head on my shoulder. Her eyes flutter shut as a little jingle plays on the crackling speakers. A woman with a sultry voice talks us through the “strokes” and “stresses” on the lowercase letter b.

            Your clothes aren’t helping your situation, are they Pen? You want to rip them off. That itchy cotton irritates your skin, and the fit is too tight across your chest. Only the relief of a cool breeze on your naked body could help you now. But look where you are…

“This typeface has a suggestively curved bottom. Its hard stem reaches far beyond the standard….” the voice continues to go on.

            …I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you? That nuisance tickle is making its way up to your torso, passing goosebumps and blushing flesh.

            Two soft nipples are now its target, but there’s a problem: tickles don’t like soft nipples. Tickles like them hard.

            Can you feel it? It’s almost there.

            An ache surrounds your swelling breasts, sending electrical flashes of arousal down south. You can’t help but squirm in your seat from the pure magnitude of it all.

            Or can you?

            Do you have enough self-control?

This pulsating sensation at the centre of my trembling limbs is going berserk. The only thing holding me together is the sheer strength in my clenched thighs. The muscles in my legs are aching, and I’m sure I’ve drawn blood on my bottom lip from biting it too hard.

I’ve only just noticed the slight rocking motion my body is making. But El doesn’t seem to mind. The movement is helping her drift even further into the land of nod.

            I imagine you’re sitting there in a long summer dress. It’s made from a sheer floaty fabric, which pools around your feet. With the briefest of tugs, it effortlessly glides up your legs, exposing smooth skin to the air. But don’t worry, you’re still hiding beneath your desk. I like the feeling of guarding your modesty.

            With your legs clamped tightly together, the material gathers on your lap. “Will you open for me, please?” I whisper in your ear. There’s a slight hesitation in your eyes before you nod. “Are you sure?” I ask again.

            You grab hold of my hand and pull me towards you, and that’s when I see it. The small gap between your legs allowing me access.

            The material conveniently flops over my hand when I slip it between your legs. I can feel your excitement through your underwear. They’re satin, aren’t they? I know because my fingers glide over you with ease. However, they’re in my way.

            Is that a moan I hear?

“Pen, shh”, El mumbles behind me. “And stop breathing so hard. We’re not running a marathon.” She fluffs up a sleeve of her discarded hoodie and stuffs it under her cheek, making herself that little more comfortable.

            That juicy earlobe of yours is calling my name. A kiss on the lips might draw attention, but a small nibble here won’t hurt.

            I barely touch you before my name escapes on a breath.

“Are you alright? Your face is bright red. Here…” Fran passes me a small electric fan from her bag. But it’s not helping. It only blows hot air and decade-old dust mites back at me, so with a thankful smile, I pass it back.

            Your smooth folds cling to my fingers—a kiss in their own right. That precious bundle of nerves at the apex of your heated centre is my intended target. Although I’m tentative at first, I’m not a shy guy.

            Around and around, I go, occasionally changing speed and direction. We wouldn’t want to be too predictable now, would we? Then, just when you think you know what I’m about to do, I plunge a finger inside you.

            We both know we must be as quiet as possible, but it’s too late. You gasp.

            I suddenly need to suck my finger, to taste that sweet nectar that smothers it. But I don’t. Instead, I plunge it back inside you. Three, four times. I add another finger. You stretch around me, tighter and tighter.

            Now it’s my turn to shut my eyes and bask in my imagination for a second. It’s my cock I see snugly sheathed in your warm channel. In and out, I impale you. Each thrust coincides with a pant that leaves your lips. I want to swallow those gasps.

            I want to pull you towards me. To cover your mouth with mine. To lick the seam, so they open wider, giving me access to that pink tongue. But I can’t as it’s just a dream within a dream.

            You haven’t reached your crowning moment yet, but I can tell it’s close. Above us, fluorescents illuminate the theatre. We don’t have much time left. Light bounces off the perspiration on your chest. It’s hypnotising me with an alluring shimmer.

            Suddenly, I detect that unmistakable shudder. Arching your back, you fall. With my fingers still inside you, you open your eyes and stare back at me. We both feel that thing between us, but neither of us utters a word.

            Minor tremors from your climax are still thundering, igniting something I can’t explain. It’s more than sexual arousal. It’s more than foreplay. You can see it too, can’t you?

            I don’t think I’m breathing, but I don’t care either. We’re sitting alone in the middle of a crowded room, and what’s happening? I don’t know.

“Miss Featherington! Miss Featherington!”

I look up to see everyone staring straight at me.

“Penelope Featherington, I would like to see you in my office when the lecture is over.” Professor Beaufort is no longer standing behind his podium where I’d left him, but is now halfway up the stairs.

“Y-yes, sir.” I hurriedly put the phone in my bag and start copying notes from Fran’s newest scribbles. The lingering tremors making my handwriting a chaotic mess.

“See, I said you’d get into trouble,” Fran says when the lecture begins anew.

I smile and hide my heated face. “But it was so worth it.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

            One_Trek_Mind: Well, did you, you know, tap your button?

            Lady_W: Hello to you, too.

            One_Trek_Mind: Well, did you? I’m on the edge of my seat.

            Lady_W: What do you think? I was in the middle of a lecture.

            One_Trek_Mind: I think you couldn’t stop yourself. You creamed your pants and shouted my name when you came all over the people in the row in front of you.

The humiliation I endured wouldn’t have been so bad if the lecture had ended just after they caught me. But it was sitting through another hour and a half of Professor Beaufort checking that I still had my hands planted firmly on the desk that pushed it over the edge.

Following my climax, the looks I received from my fellow students were surprising. Some openly shared their look of disgust, while others licked their lips and winked in my direction.

I don’t blame them. After all, it’s not every day somebody orgasms while listening to a talk about serifs.

            Lady_W: For your information, I wasn’t panting that heavily. However, it caused quite an uproar. I’m now on report for disruption.

            One_Trek_Mind: Oh shit! Are you serious?

            Lady_W: Nah, I’m just pulling your leg. He’s not the type of person to discipline people for tickling the weasel in class. Although, I got a bollocking for ruining his flow.

            One_Trek_Mind: That’s a relief.

            Lady_W: You should have seen him when he called me into his office. The poor bloke could hardly look me in the eye.

            One_Trek_Mind: Did you really double click your mouse in class? That’s so hot if you did.

            Lady_W: From what you wrote in your email, I couldn’t stop myself.

            One_Trek_Mind: I don’t think I’ve calmed down since writing it. It’s also made me want to do something a little different, something a little silly.

I pause a moment, then smile…

            Lady_W: Like what?

            One_Trek_Mind: I know this hasn’t come up in conversation before, but what’s your stance on the whole webcam thing?

Just the thought of that dreadful thing makes my palms slick with sweat, and my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The afterglow that I’ve been running on most of the day disappears and a bitter chill replaces it. Only now I notice the added swirls of breath dancing around my mouth when I exhale.

The wisps of condensation floating around distract me from the issue. I place a hand on the wall, and my skin almost sticks to the icy surface when I pull away. I think it’s time I called someone about this, but it’ll have to wait.

            One_Trek_Mind: Personally, I have an intense disliking for those infernal webcams.

            One_Trek_Mind: Picture this and let me explain.

            One_Trek_Mind: It’s late, and we’re ready for some visual stimulation after an hour of nothing but the written stuff. After taking ages adjusting the lighting, angle, and makeup, we click and go live.

            One_Trek_Mind: But now we gotta push through those first five minutes. Those tongue-tied hellos and timid smiles, because we both know we can’t jump straight back into it. Looking someone in the eye after you’ve been writing how you’ve finger-banged them moments ago can be quite awkward.

            One_Trek_Mind: Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure we wouldn’t have a problem getting over that slight hump, but it’s during the last throes of passion that scare me the most. I’m talking about the heavy breathing, sweaty, head thrown back moments. I don’t know about you, but I look a mess. And I don’t want the camera aimed straight up my nose when I’m coming.

            One_Trek_Mind: Now, I don’t know about you, but my internet connection isn’t what I’d call speedy. Can you imagine the image we’d see if my internet cuts out and that moment freezes on our computer screens?

I throw my arms up and let out a small shout of joy, then lean over to plant a kiss on my screen. I knew there was a reason I liked this guy. Now, I don’t have to explain myself. His reason is enough for both of us.

            One_Trek_Mind: But…

            One_Trek_Mind: One_Trek_Mind has invited you to view their webcam.

            Please accept or decline.

“What!” The pounding in my chest is loud enough to wake the dead.

No, no, no. He said he doesn’t like it.

I stand and pace the room, biting my nails, then run my fingers through my hair.

Wait. It says, their webcam, not mine.

Gah, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never used this blasted thing before. I hesitate for a moment before moving my cursor over to the accept button. But just before I click it, I slip my hand inside my top drawer and pull out a pair of knickers. I’m not taking any chances.

I fling them over the top of my monitor, hiding the camera from view. Then I click it with a trembling finger.

The grainiest vision of nothingness fills a tiny box on the right-hand side of my screen. I squint, hoping to distinguish what might be an elbow from an armrest. Turning my head this way and that, I try to get a better idea of what’s staring back at me, but to no avail.

Suddenly, the armrest moves, and the image clears to full-on HD as a lamp turns on off-camera. A pair of rosy-pink nipples, positioned perfectly in the centre of the box, stare back at me.

My eyes run over his torso, my gob hanging wide. I take in everything all while holding my breath, because now isn’t a time to breathe. Now is a time to stare. Possibly drool a little.

Dark brown hairs, a subtle and light covering, adorn his upper chest. It descends to a smooth midriff; a delicate indentation between his pecks guides my gaze to a set of well-defined abs, firm and taut beneath the skin. Unfortunately, the top of the desk and the camera cuts off my view of what’s above and below.

He’s topless except for a crisp white collar and black satin bowtie around his neck. Rubbing my eyes, I look again. A matching pair of white cuffs around his wrists sit idle on his desk.

The clearing of a throat and the clicking of keys startle me.

            One_Trek_Mind: What do you think?

            One_Trek_Mind: Do I need to give you another minute?

“Cheeky sod,” I mumble.

A sexy chuckle leaves my speakers. It isn’t loud, but my clitoris hears it. If I didn’t know it was so cold in here, I would think steam was rising off me.

            One_Trek_Mind: Are you ready for this? I hope you like disco.

The distinct introduction to the classic 70s song Stayin’ Alive belts out at an ear-splitting volume. I dive for the nob on my speaker, twisting it to a more acceptable level.

The torso shown on the screen retrieves something from beneath the table, stands up slowly, and moves away from the desk, his head still off camera. Covering his naked package, he holds in one hand a faded square cushion with Superman’s famous insignia embroidered on the front. The other hand hides something similar behind his back.

My or his crappy internet connection creates a slight delay in sound to picture. Although that does nothing to impede my enjoyment of his gyrating hip movements to the classic tune.

I'm howling with laughter in no time. My sides hurt even more when Colin switches hands and brings out a Batman cushion from the rear. The exchange is quick enough that the performance stays at a PG rating for the rest of the song.

I savour all four minutes and forty-five seconds of it, but it still leaves me wanting more. I ask for Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff to be played next. The up-tempo pace has his chest heaving, and a slight sheen of sweat caresses his pecks.

Dancing in my seat, I muffle a yelp as Colin nearly loses a cushion during the performance. I don’t know if it was deliberate, but there’s a part of me that thinks it was.

He ends with a small, appreciative bow. The angle was low enough for me to see some brown hair on his head. It was only a quick flash, but it was enough to add to my mental picture of him. I show my gratitude with a round of applause, even though I know he can’t hear me.

He reaches off camera once again, but this time he pulls out a small piece of paper with Tips appreciated, written in blue biro.

            Lady_W: I’m all out of change.

I hear the quiet ping of my incoming message on his side of the screen. I expect him to cut the camera, but he looks up with excitement and reads my words right in front of me. The laughter that once filled my room is now nothing but silence when I look straight into his eyes.

His incredible blue eyes.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Reality slaps me hard in the face via a camera lens. My insecurities kept me from asking him about his appearance, as I would panic if he requested the same from me. I was fine with not knowing as I’d already envisioned several images in my head; different role-plays require costume changes.

But now, all I see is him. His eyes reflecting the glow of his monitor, making them sparkle. He’s sitting so close that I want to type my name just to see it reflected in those deep blues.

Thinking back, my perception of him is sharpening with each memory. It’s his face I now see in the Starfleet uniform. It’s those plump lips that catch my eye when he’s passionately thrusting on top of me.

Is that a mole by his bottom lip or just a speck on my screen? People have painted on beauty marks for years, and this guy gets one for free.

I wipe my monitor with the back of my sleeve.

No, it’s just dust.

The key question is, do I feel upset he robbed me of my ability to visualise him the way I desire?

Fuck. No.

Because he’s more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.

            One_Trek_Mind: I accept bank transfers.

I sit and study the arrogance of my blinking cursor. It stands there egging me on, shouting to a monotonous beat. “Come on… say something… do something….” But I can’t. All I can do is stare as he sits there, waiting for my reply. I take a screenshot before I can talk myself out of it and file the image away for when I’m alone. A trick I learnt from him.

            One_Trek_Mind: Hello?

The confusion on his face has me sliding back to reality. His smile falls as he glances into the camera for a split second before it turns black.

            One_Trek_Mind: Sorry, forgot I still had it on. I guess you have the advantage.

He doesn’t need to say it. I understand what he’s saying. But I’m still not ready to go as far as he did, even though it was accidental. Looking around the room, I notice a small makeup mirror on a shelf by the bed. The angle is just right for me to see my features from a distance. Do I start head to toe, or do I list my best features first? Where to begin?

            Lady_W: My eyes are blue.

I’ll leave the vibrant details for another time. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm the poor bloke.

            Lady_W: I’m 5’0” and a half.

            Lady_W: I’m ginger.

            One_Trek_Mind: Is it long?

            Lady_W: It’s just past my shoulders. And I have a bit of a sweeping fringe too.

Freely giving it away now. Next time I’ll tell him my PIN code.

Racking my brain, I try to think of a way to describe the rest of me. Maybe substituting the harsh reality of the word “fat” with something more forgiving. A half-truth, perhaps?

Would curvy suffice?

It’s not a lie, but some would debate that curvy should apply to someone like Beyoncé and not me. Perhaps disclosing a dress size would help? To his credit, he may be oblivious to the complex sizing system of the female form.

            One_Trek_Mind: I’d say that makes us even.

“W-what?” I stutter aloud.

No intrusive request for details. No cryptic interrogation to figure out the size of my boobs?

            Lady_W: You sure?

            One_Trek_Mind: Absolutely. You know my name, and what I look like, and now I can say the same.

Yeah, it sounds like we’re definitely even, I think with a smile.

***

I crack open one eye and leave behind one of the best dreams I’ve had in months. I was a princess in a foreign land, being held captive in a medieval castle; Colin’s face glowed with clarity. His brown locks gleamed in the evening sun as he fought faceless strangers to rescue me.

My sluggish arm slumps over the side of the bed as I dig around for my phone. I eventually find it discarded deep inside my shoe.

The bright light burns my retinas as I unlock the screen and check my email. One is from my lecturer telling everybody this afternoon’s studio time is cancelled. The second is from my mum, narrating a minute-by-minute account of her latest trip to the countryside. I skip most of it and scroll to the most relevant parts at the bottom.

She wants me to come home for the weekend. I suck on the inside of my cheek as I ponder my choices. Beans on toast again, or dinner with my mother and her thousand pictures of sheep?

I’ll tell her I’ve got revision to do. That usually works.

The last email is from Colin. But before I read this morning’s edition, I sit up and finger-comb my hair into a semblance of order.

Now I’m ready.

He sends them in the early morning hours before work nowadays. After the incident with his first email, we both agreed it was safer to pen all messages in a child/boss/lecture/professor-free environment. So far, so good.

This’ll be the fifth email in a fortnight I’ve received from Colin, and every one of them has been top tier. I’ve read each about four times and even printed one and stuck it to my wall. I embellished it with a flamboyant border and a pair of hearts in the corners. Thirteen-year-old me would be proud.

            Sender: Colin Bridgerton

            Subject: Good morning.

            My dearest Penelope.

I’ve started most of my emails to you this way and only now do I see the potential problem. Is the word “dearest” too old-fashioned? Or perhaps I’m not old and grey enough to use it yet. Maybe it’s only reserved for people that smoke a pipe or own at least one cravat.

It brings to mind those black and white films. You know the ones. The man would sit in a high-backed leather chair, wearing a smoking jacket whilst reading a newspaper. While his beloved lazes on a chaise lounge, with a martini in one hand and one of those long cigarettes in the other.

But I digress. The real reason for this early morning email is to tell you that the Deputy Head called for a meeting before and after school today. So, I might be a little late coming home for our arranged chat.

Miss you already.

Colin              

Without hesitation, I pen a reply.

            Sender: Penelope Featherington

            Subject: Carry on, my dearest.

            Dearest Colin,

When I was but a wee nipper, I believed the word “dearest” was only used by the old codger down the road. However, your short ramblings have intrigued me.

I say we bring it back. Anything to help abolish the vile terms of endearment I’ve heard people using nowadays. The ones like “baby”, “sweet-cheeks” and “sugar-tits”, need to go.

Now that I think about it, why settle with just bringing back “dearest”? Let’s reintroduce all the weird ones.

A little digging and I’ve already found some old-fashioned ones like “Heart’s Gleam” and “Lambkin”. Or, if you fancy something sweeter, our student union serves “Snickerdoodles” and “Strawberry Shortcake”. Personally, I wouldn't mind if you called me your little "Strawberry Shortcake".

Just some food for thought.

P.S. Don’t worry about me, I’ve plenty of things to keep me occupied until you get home. At the time of typing this, I only have eight hours to kill. Piece of cake.

Yours

Penelope

Not three minutes later, I receive a reply. With eager fingers, I open the email. Am I going to be his snickerdoodle or Strawberry Shortcake?

            Sender: Colin Bridgerton

            Subject: Emergency.

            Penelope

I need your phone number. I can’t explain. Hurry!

            Colin

I stare at my phone, rereading the message again. He never acts like this. I’m confused. What’s he up to?

Ding!

The noise startles me enough that I almost drop my phone.

            Sender: Colin Bridgerton

            Subject: EMERGENCY!

Please hurry. There isn’t much time.

Colin

“Ok, Ok.” I say aloud as I type in my digits. No matter what happens next, I will fully express my discomfort to him and firmly request that this behaviour not happen again. He better have a damn good reason for all of this.

The phone lies silently in my hands as I wait for his call; the anticipation is like a heavy weight on my chest. I reflect upon that familiar voice, the enthusiasm of hearing it once more fills my thoughts. Wait, this means he’s going to hear my voice, too. I clear my throat and perform a vocal scale reminiscent of The Sound of Music, though nowhere near as good. After a couple more minutes, my excitement turns to nerves, then to worry.

Where is he?

More minutes go by and still not a peep. I log into the chatroom and check for his name. Nothing.

Ten minutes after that, I send him another email.

            Sender: Penelope Featherington

            Subject: Where are you?

Colin, what’s wrong? Why haven’t you called me?

Pen

An hour later and I’ve bitten my nails down to the quick. He still hasn’t called. Not even an email. Nada.

I hope he's okay.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

With studio period cancelled and plenty of time to kill before my regularly scheduled chat with Colin, I indulge in some casual reading with a warm brew by my side. With a few gentle pats, I fluff my pillows before sinking into the welcoming embrace of my bed. But right now, it feels off. I can’t get comfy to save my life. Colin still hasn’t called me and at the end of every other sentence in my book, I briefly check my phone in case my ears have suddenly stopped working and I’ve missed it ring. It’s almost becoming an involuntary tick.

After losing my place for the fourth time, I move the damn thing to a safer distance. Now I can’t look at my phone without having to walk to the other side of the room, and I’m too lazy for that.

My excitement is slowly building. I can finally find out what happens between Duke Dashing III and the lovely Lady Tittlebottom. The duke was just about to request his third waltz of the night and cause the most indecent of scandals amongst the Ton when…

Ding!

I catapult off the bed, throw my book across the room, and grab my phone.

            Sender: Spank You Very Much

            Subject: Spring Sale

            Spank You Very Much would like to offer you a 20% discount on your next online order.

“Why hasn’t he rung yet?” I yell at my phone. Does he keep hanging up before it rings, like a nervous teenager? Perhaps his phone has died, and he’s looking for the last remaining phone box in the country? I reopen my email and check the sent folder. Have I sent him the wrong number, and he’s now talking to a Chinese restaurant in Bradford?

As if on cue, the opening drums of Toto’s Africa - my go-to ringtone - burst forth from my hand. The phone displays an unknown number. A sight I rarely see, as El, Fran, and my mum are the only people who ever call me. I take a deep breath and let it ring a few more seconds, trying to play it cool while my body jitters. With a shaky finger, I answer it, “Hello.”

“Penelope?”

I clear my throat before replying, “Yeah?”

“Do you ever listen?”

“Excuse me?” I can barely distinguish one word from another.

“I said, do you ever listen?” The muffled words spill through the crackling line. I press my phone firmly to my ear and walk around the small space to get a better signal. “Colin, is that you?”

“I guess not.”

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Do you hear me laughing?”

“I think you might have the wrong number.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me!” The line clears instantly, a high-pitched voice assaults my ear. It takes a few seconds for the threat to sink in, and when it does, it becomes clear who it is.

“Marina?” The list of people that know me is relatively short. Threatening phone calls aren’t Fran’s style, and El couldn’t do a working-class accent even if she was paid. That only leaves one other person.

“No. I’m not Marina!” Marina says.

If I weren’t so unprepared for this phone call, I would laugh at the panic in her quaking voice. All bark and no bite. “Have you been looking at Colin’s email again, Marina? Is that how you got my number? Naughty, naughty, Marina.” There’s an intake of breath every time I use her name. The fury’s just oozing down the line, and it’s making me want to push her even more. After all, she rang me. I’m not paying for the phone call.

“I’ve already told you this isn’t Marina.”

“Look, Marina. I don’t have time for this. You shouldn’t hack into Colin’s emails. He’s not going to like it when he finds out.”

“I’m not hacking. Colin always leaves his computer logged on when he leaves for work.”

“Are you in Colin’s place again?” The humour is suddenly lost as I think about her snooping through his stuff, possibly leaving a nasty present behind. Maybe something she could blame the dog on. That’s if Colin had a dog.

“It doesn’t fucking matter where I am!” she screams.

I give her a moment to calm down. Her breathing is almost deafening me. When enough time has elapsed, I quietly ask, “What are you calling me for?”

“We had a deal. You promised you wouldn’t talk to Colin again.” Her voice cracks, “Please, stop talking to him,” she ends with a sob.

I clutch my phone in both hands. The loathing I once felt for her is slowly ebbing away as I hear her cries. Suddenly, guilt rips a small hole in my gut and the thrill of making her angry doesn’t have the same effect. “Look, I don’t want to get involved. This whole situation is between the two of you.”

“But he won’t talk to me.”

“Perhaps it’s best if you left him alone for a while. Let things cool down. You might need some time too. Treat yourself, hang out with some friends.”

“But I can’t wait that long.”

“Why? What’s the rush? If you say you’re pregnant, I’m putting this phone down.” I tell her, not thinking it might piss her off more.

“I am pregnant,” she sighs. “But it’s not Colin’s, we haven’t been together for… well, let’s just say, a very long time.”

“What about the father?”

“Oh, George…he’s…well. He’s not around anymore., and I just know Colin will step up. He’s the type.”

I appreciate her honesty. She could’ve easily sent me packing with one little lie, but she didn’t. “I don’t know what else to say,” I tell her. I find a shoe and start kicking it absentmindedly around the floor.

“Just say you won’t talk to Colin again. I’m not asking for much. Please do this one little favour. Then I’ll never bother you again. I promise.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

“Bitch!” And like a switch, her tears dry up and venom leaks from her wounds. “You promised me! Colin and I have a history together. You’re just some catfishing cunt that has to go online to find someone to fuck.”

“You listen to me. You don’t know me.” My hands shake, but I force my voice to remain at a reasonable level, though it's a struggle. “I never promised you anything.” I point to thin air, but in my mind, I see her dead eyes staring right back at me.

“I don’t want to know you.”

“That’s great, because given the way this conversation is progressing, I believe it would be unwise for us to be in the same room together.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Do you think I’m this little girl sending love notes to a boy she likes? You couldn’t be more wrong, sweetheart.” I step over the shoe I’ve been kicking and pace back and forth — I’m rather thankful for this heavy-duty carpeting from the amount of walking I do in this room.

The months of coming up with random scenarios and inventing different personas are finally paying off. “I’ve done things.” I tell her. “Things you wouldn’t believe. Hasn’t anyone told you how dangerous it is meeting someone off the internet? We are a society of dirty secrets, with nothing left to lose. Don’t let this voice fool you. You’ve no idea what I’m capable of or who I know on this side. I suggest you forget this number and find someone else to play psycho ex-girlfriend with.” I’ve never spoken to anyone like this before. I'm channelling my inner Liam Neeson.

“No, you listen… Shortcake. I may not know who you are, but I know where you are….”

A loud bang on her end of the phone startles me. A rather angry sounding male yells, “What the fuck are you doing in here, again?”

The line goes quiet.

“Hello?” I yell, but then a tone rings in my ear signalling the call's end. Without hesitation, I open up my emails and begin typing out a message.

            Sender: Penelope Featherington

            Subject: What’s happening?!

            Colin!

            Marina’s been pretending to be you. She’s been reading our emails.

            The line went dead as soon as I heard your voice in the background.

            Email me as soon as you get this.

            Penelope

A metallic tang coats my tongue as I stare at my empty inbox. It almost tastes like I’ve consumed a box of staples for breakfast.

I pull a finger from my mouth and sneer at the bloody mess I’ve made. It’s when I spit out the whole fingernail does the pain finally kick-in. “Oh, god.” I shout around a mouthful of blood.

I wrap the hem of my white t-shirt I around my bloody finger as an impromptu bandage. It's tricky to do it while still wearing it. Just when I get the bleeding under control, my phone goes off for the second time. I’m too busy trying not to cut off my circulation that I don’t even look at the number.

“Hello?” I spit as I answer the phone. A sprinkling of blood still fills my mouth. It makes me gag, and what little food I’ve eaten today fills the back of my throat.

“Penelope, is that you?”

“Yeah, one sec,” I answer, but still too preoccupied now applying a plaster while trying not to drop my phone. I wedge it between my shoulder and the side of my face, but the fabric of my t-shirt causes it to slip each time.

My stomach is turning over as I peer closely at the edge of the plaster and see my bare nail bed. I’ve never pulled the whole nail off before. Only during my exams was I close, but it was never this bad. The sheer amount of blood is surprising, especially as it was only my pinkie.

The room spins, and I can’t find my footing. I place a hand on the wall and take a few deep breaths. Once my mind clears, I put the phone back up to my ear. “Sorry about that. I’m back.”

“Your voice is even sexier than I thought it would be,” the voice chuckles down the line.

I know that chuckle.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

            COLIN

“Strawberry Shortcake?” Agatha forces a small piece as I walk out of my classroom. It’s delicately arranged in layers and the aroma of ripe strawberries and sweet sugar waft up to my nostrils. A delicious scent that evokes images of summer and happy times. I’ve had nothing home baked in ages, but especially Agatha’s baking. She’s been on a diet for the past six months, but since being stranded in the mountains, she’s taken on a whole new lease on life. Eat what you want because you never know it may be your last.

I take a bite of the shortcake as I walk to my car; it crumbles in my hands, sending small pieces cascading down my necktie and onto my shirt. The sweet and buttery flavour is second to none, and I almost want to nip back to the classroom for a second helping, but I can’t. I have just under thirty minutes to get home, grab the books I forgot this morning, and get back.

I saw Penelope’s email in my inbox less than an hour ago. It was like a little jewel, waiting patiently for me. And as promised, I’ve postponed reading it until I was out of school. Well, in the carpark, but it still counts.

A nervous flutter and a silly grin hit me as soon as I open her email. I kinda don’t care if Nick and his mates walk by and see me like this. He’ll understand when he gets older.

            Sender: Penelope Featherington

            Subject: Carry on, my dearest.

            Dearest Colin,

            When I was but a wee nipper, I believed the word “dearest” was only used by the old codger down the road. However, your short ramblings have intrigued me.

            I say we bring it back. Anything to help abolish the vile terms of endearment I’ve heard people using nowadays. The ones like “baby”, “sweet-cheeks” and “sugar-tits”, need to go.

            Now that I think about it, why settle with just bringing back “dearest”? Let’s reintroduce all the weird ones.

            A little digging and I’ve already found some old-fashioned ones like “Heart’s Gleam” and “Lambkin”. Or, if you fancy something sweeter, our student union serves “Snickerdoodles” and “Strawberry Shortcake”. Personally, I wouldn't mind if you called me your little "Strawberry Shortcake".

            Just some food for thought.

            P.S. Don’t worry about me, I’ve plenty of things to keep me occupied until you get home. At the time of typing this, I only have eight hours to kill. Piece of cake.

            Yours

            Penelope

“Huh. Strawberry Shortcake. What are the odds?”

If Penelope wants a nickname, then Strawberry Shortcake it has to be. Agatha bringing some in must be kismet. Who am I to mess with fate?

The traffic is minimal. But every light turns red as I approach. It’s like they know when you’re in a hurry. I park in my designated spot in front of my second-floor flat and go inside. As I enter my living room, a tidal wave of shock, anger, and nausea crashes over me, leaving me reeling and utterly disgusted. Marina is standing with her back to me, shouting into my landline.

“…No, you listen… Shortcake. I may not know who you are, but I know where you are...”

“What the fuck are you doing here again?” I shout.

“Er…” she spins around and gently drops the phone in its cradle like a criminal after a drawn standoff with the police.

“W-what are you doing home this early?”

“I said, what are you doing in my fucking flat, Marina?!” My voice isn’t as loud as before, but my stare is intense.

“I-I forgot something.” She scans the room, but compared to her university lodgings, a misplaced item in my place would be noticeable.

“I have nothing of yours. Get out!”

She drops her gaze and shuffles toward the front door, but before walking through it, I block her path with an arm. And just like the time I found her in my bed, her eyes light up with promise. “Key.” I say through gritted teeth, then hold out my hand.

To my surprise, she hands over the lone key. “Happy?” She asks in a mock tone.

“Is that the only copy?”

She nods, then leaves, flicking her brown hair over her shoulder as she goes.

With a loud slam, I close the door and, to be extra secure I reinforced it with not one, but two heavy-duty bolts. In a chaotic search of my flat, I look for something—anything—that's not mine or might have been moved.

Taking no chances, I call the head teacher and arrange a couple of days off. I apologise for missing my afternoon classes, but I believe guilt is still on their side from our extended mountain excursion, and he tells me to take the rest of the week off.

Next, the police. I’ve put off calling them for far too long, Marina won’t take no for an answer, and I don’t want this escalating into something messy. She’s never been the type of person to back down from a fight. But even after what she’s put me through, I still have some sympathy for her, especially after she told me she was pregnant.

Sitting down, I run my fingers through my hair before looking up the numbers for the local police and a locksmith. I arrange for them both to come later tonight to take a statement and change the locks.

I decompress at my desk; my laptop is a welcome sight. As I reach for the power button, I see that it’s still powered on. I wiggle the curser and boom, there are my emails. The latest appears to be new and unopened.

            Sender: Penelope Featherington

            Subject: What’s happening?!

            Colin!

            Marina’s been pretending to be you. She’s been reading our emails.

            The line went dead as soon as I heard your voice in the background.

            Email me as soon as you get this.

            Penelope

She was calling Penelope. How did she even get her number?

Frantically, I jump from my desk and reach for my landline. Hitting the redial with a shaky finger, I listen intently for the other end to pick up.

“Hello?”

Did I hear her just spit? Regardless, I don’t care. I just need to know if it’s Penelope and not just a friend of Marina’s.

“Penelope, is that you?” My voice, unsteady and trembling with emotion.

“Yeah, one sec.”

She seems so calm, almost preoccupied. As I listen closely, I detect the faint sound of a struggle, including a hiss and a quiet moan. Unfortunately, it doesn’t sound pleasurable but more like pain. Before I can even utter a word to ask if she is okay, she beats me to the chase.

“Sorry about that. I’m back.”

I can’t believe I’m finally talking to Penelope. She’s not the weird guy sitting in his mum’s basement. She’s real.

“Your voice is even sexier than I thought it would be.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

PENELOPE

Despite my efforts to remain purely digital with Colin, the idea of hearing his voice, a tangible connection, would sometimes pop into my head. Until recently, they were just intrusive thoughts that I’d filed away, buried deep within my mind. But now I need that file, and I’ve lost the password. I have nothing planned. I don’t know what to say next.

I’m in uncharted territory. No planning, no hiding, no blaming dodgy internet, just me. Everything that comes out of my mouth is raw and unfiltered. I must be witty, strong, desirable. He must believe my voice is a siren’s song.

“Thanks. I’ve been working on it.” I say, then slap my uninjured hand on my forehead. I’ve been working on it? I repeat silently to myself.

“It sounded pretty natural to me,” Colin says, with all sincerity. Even the little emphasis he put on the word pretty has me blushing. I resist the urge to bat the compliment away, a habit that’s almost as ingrained in me as biting my nails.

“So… what happened to Marina?” I change the subject, hoping the fire in my cheeks will settle down if we steer the conversation away from me. “Is she still there with you?”

“No, she’s gone.” A sigh escapes his lips, a sound of relief that I can almost feel.

“And what about you?”

“I’m certainly better now.” The suggestive undertone resonates through the phone line and straight into my knickers. I perch on the corner of the bed and squeeze my legs together, pleading with my body to not fall apart.

“H-how did she get in?” I ask, my voice a little breathy.

“I think she might have sweet-talked the manager at the front desk. He’s got the other set of keys. But don’t worry, I’ll be having a word with him later.”

I nod; utterly oblivious that he can’t see me. “Marina admitted she’d gone through your emails.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“You’re calling the police, right?”

“Yeah, it’s long overdue.”

Involving the police means one thing: he’s safe. I let myself flop backwards onto my bed. The air in my lungs whooshing out of me in one big blast of relief.

“Fuck,” he continues, “I really need to decontaminate this place after the police have looked around. I swear I can see her essence leaking into my stuff.”

I grimace at the thought of her icky hands touching his Batman cushion. “She’s persistent. You might wanna look for spyware, too.”

“Oh, that reminds me….” I hear footsteps on a wooden floor, and then the sound of typing on a keyboard. “I’ve found it. Would you like me to delete it?”

“Delete what?”

“The email with your phone number in it?”

“What’s the point? She’s already got it.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I haven’t written it down.”

I now realise what he’s asking. He wants to delete my number because I haven’t given it to him. This man amazes me; Even though we’ve already crossed that line, he’s still asking for my permission. He wants me to give him my number freely.

What if I say no? Will we just go back to how things were?

I don’t think I want that anymore. His voice makes me tremble. Trembling is good.

“You keep it.” I smile and twirl a loose lock of hair around an uninjured finger. “You don’t mind if I save yours?”

He laughs, and the line goes dead. Before I have time to question what happened, my phone lights up with a new unknown number. “Hello?” I tentatively answer.

“Now you have it.” The welcome sound of Colin’s voice fills my ears. “Sorry, it was strange using my landline. Marina is the first person to touch it since I moved in.”

“What happened between you two, if you don’t mind me asking?” My inquisitive nature takes charge with a clipboard and pen, and I prepare to take mental notes. I’ve wanted to ask him about her for so long, but it’s never been the right time.

“I caught her in bed with my best friend.” The silence that follows suggests that’s all I’m going to get, but then he surprises me by adding, “George and I haven’t talked since I moved after everything became public. It was best to just leave. Get a fresh start. You know?” There’s sorrow in his voice when he mentions George specifically. I can’t help but wonder; does losing him as a friend hurt more than losing Marina as a girlfriend?

“Did you move far to get away from everything?”

He clears his throat and utters, “Actually,” His pause has me growing cold. “I couldn’t because of my work. I also have a big family, which I love dearly, and I couldn’t leave them to live on the other side of the country. Cliveden was just far enough that I could disappear and still commute.” He chuckles, “you’ll never guess where I used to live?”

Even after three years in this little city, my sense of direction and knowledge of my surroundings is dreadful. Anything beyond walking distance is a mystery to me. “I don’t know.” I shamefully admit.

“Grosvenor. It’s funny, we might have even bumped into each other. In fact, my sisters…”

“Wait!” I cut him off. So much for a little heart flutter — this fucker in my chest is about to take off. “If you lived Grosvenor, does that mean Marina still live here?”

“I know I might sound stupid after everything that’s happened today, but I wouldn’t worry. Your uni has what… thirty halls of residence—each with a hundred flats? You’ll probably never see her. You don’t even know what she looks like. She doesn’t know what you look like. I wouldn’t panic. What halls are you in, anyway?”

“Yellow Haven.” Yup, I told him where I live, and I don't care. He’s not the one I need to worry about.

“See, she doesn’t live in Yellow Haven. You’ll be fine.”

He’s right. I take a deep breath, and I already feel the panic escaping my body. She won't find me. “Which hall does she live in?” I ask, hoping he’s going to say Longhorn Meadows. That place is about a mile and a half away on the other side of campus.

“I can’t remember the actual name. Triathlon, Tridon…”

“T-Trinity?” I stutter.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” 

El and Fran’s swanky abode houses a demon. I knew that place was too good to be true. A wave of nausea and dizziness washes over me as my panic button is pushed. I can’t catch my breath. Gimme some air.

I open my window wide and the crisp winds barrel inside. It knocks over a stack of printer paper on the sill, creating a landscape of snow on my bedroom floor.

“Penelope, what’s wrong? You sound like you’re hyperventilating.” His voice is a million miles away. “Penelope! Erm… what colour…underwear do you have on?” His words come out staggered, and in a rush.

“Oh, my god. She’s going to find… She’s going to kill…” I pause as his words finally hit me. “What?”

“I need to know. Right now. What kind of underwear are you wearing?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Please.”

Stretching the waistband of my black leggings, I do as I’m told and take a peek. A hint of green breaks through the darkness. “They’re green with Kermit the Frog on them,” I say and pull my head away from the phone when his laughter deafens me.

The sound causes my shoulders to settle, the tension quickly leaving my body. I can breathe again. “Kermit, Miss Piggy, Gonzo, and Animal. I have the complete set.”

“I like the sound of those. Does the design match your day? Like when people wear days of the week underwear?”

“No, but it kinda matches my mood. I’ve eaten three mud squares from the student union while wearing the Miss Piggy pair.”

Because of our joint laughter, I almost miss the ringing from the corner of my room. The beige plastic wheel of the old rotary phone vibrates with each bell that tolls. “Can you hold on one sec? Someone’s ringing the bat-phone” With my mobile still planted firmly against my ear, I reach over and pick up the receiver. “El? Is that you?” I ask, my brows knitting together.

“Not quite. Let me pick up where I left off before Colin interrupted us. Your little tale about being the internet's mob boss has fallen flat. Don’t get me wrong, you sounded convincing, but that was before I did a little digging. I know exactly who you are and where you live, Penelope Featherington of Yellow Haven, Flat 167 B.”

The line goes dead.

The receiver clatters against the side of the desk as it falls from my trembling hand. After it comes to rest, the phone dangles in a manner that is quite similar to a man hanging from a noose.

I take a step back, followed by another.

My ankle unexpectedly gives way as the arch of my foot catches the shoe that I’ve been idly kicking around.

I fall.

The last thing I see before the room goes dark is the small shelf next to my bed advancing towards my face.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

My eyes flutter open to a world of brilliant white, a stark and dazzling brightness that surrounds me. Are these clouds? Am I dead?

As I shift onto my side, a crisp sheet of paper sticks to my forehead. Slowly, I peel it away and intense pain shoots through my temple. A hiss and a surge of frustration escapes me as I wad it up and throw it at the bin. I miss.

Cold from the concrete beneath the thin pile seeps into my bones. I get up onto my knees, but the slippery sheets scattered on the floor aren’t making it easy. Reaching for my bedcovers, I pull myself up onto a set of wobbly legs, but as my elevation increases, so does the pain.

I collapse onto the bed, adjusting my position until I find a more comfortable sitting posture. The ache in my head remains, no matter how much I rotate my neck and rub my temples. With a deep breath, I arch my back and run my hands over my face and hair, smoothing all the wispy strands back into place. Yet when they return to my lap, I see a crimson smear on my upturned palms. Suddenly, something drips down my face, and the world swims red as my magnolia walls take on a bloody hue.

The sight has me stumbling to the bathroom, panic eating away at me. I stagger inside, gripping the cold porcelain of my sink with both hands. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count to ten, then slowly open my lids and stare at my reflection until my blurry face comes into focus.

Dark red streaks mark my ginger hair. A smudge of blood sweeps across my forehead like some kind of tribal marking, and a thick layer of dry blood coats my cheek and crumbles into the fine lines around my mouth. With shaky fingers, I part my hair and find a small gash in my scalp. The image turns my stomach into a bubbling mess, and when I dry heave into the toilet, an ache in my ribs takes my breath away.

“Fuck—too!”

Beyond my bathroom, I hear a tinny voice and the distant hum of traffic, punctuated by the occasional blare of a car horn, and the subtle sounds of tires screeching.

I wander back into my bedroom and find my mobile on the floor. The shattered glass screen mocks me as it catches the warm glow from the wall light and twinkles on the blackened background. “Fuckin’ great.” I say in a defeated tone, but then instantly regret speaking when the pain resumes in my head.

Colourful language suddenly returns, but this time I pinpoint its location. Specifically, it’s coming from my broken phone.

“Kiss your—with—mouth?”

I hold the broken phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Penelope? Pen, you there? Can you—me?”

I pull the phone away from my ear and the screen lights up, displaying the word unknown. Only then do a handful of fuzzy memories come back to me.

A lone shoe.

That deathtrap of a shelf.

And did I speak to Colin? Yeah, I think I did, but the contents of our conversation are nothing but a fuzzy blur.

“Colin?”

“Pen? I’m almost—” He breathlessly says, then hangs up.

I throw my phone on the bed, a little confused, then gingerly pick up a few pieces of paper and stack them back on the sill. The shoe that started it all is now cowering under my desk, hopefully thinking about what it’s done wrong.

A jolting realisation strikes me when a small gust of wind blows through the window and tosses half the stack of paper back on to the floor. I retrace my steps and see the receiver to my landline hanging over the side of my desk. Then the memory returns with a vengeance like a slap in the face.

Marina.

I need to go to the office and speak with someone about her. Do I need a new phone number? A whole new room, perhaps? Is a new identity going a little too far? I search my little shelf for my keys and keycard, only to find a small patch of blood on the edge embedded with a few strands of ginger hair. As I kneel and use the bottom of my t-shirt to wipe it off—because what’s the point in wasting a clean towel—I hear my phone ringing in the background.

“Yeah?” I answer with a bit too much force. My attention, preoccupied with scraping my scalp off the furniture.

“I’m here.”

“What? Who’s this?”

“Pen. It’s Colin. I’m outside your front gate.”

Through the glass door, I can see people outside tightly clutching their coats around their torsos to ward off the winter chill. But I can’t feel anything, as I’m numb to the core. My body is on autopilot. I don’t even remember hanging up the phone and walking down the multiple flights of stairs to get to the front door of my building.

I put my weight behind the heavy-duty door to battle against the weather blowing on it from the other side. The icy winds squeeze through the crack and plaster my damp bloody shirt to my skin. I push once more, and without warning, the door flies open from the other side, causing me to stumble into the path of oncoming foot traffic.

Do bad things happen in threes? First the phone call from Marina. Then the fall which could’ve taken my life. To make it complete, here comes number three.

“Christ, what happened to you?” Cressida staggers back, clutching a fan of plastic keycards to her chest. The old man stands behind her. His eyes once again rake over my figure, making my stomach churn. One side of his mouth tilts up, accentuating the wrinkles in his face, making him look more sinister than the last time I saw him. “Cold?” He smirks as he openly stares at my chest.

I ignore him, and for the first time, I’m glad Cressida is here so that I can address her instead. “I tripped and hit my head. It looks worse than it is.”

“I hope you didn’t get blood in the communal area. I don’t want to pay for your fucking clumsy-arse. Blood is a bitch to get out of that cheap carpet, you know?”

Yes, Cressida. I bet you do know.

“We don’t have time for chit-chat.” The old geezer says as he throws a lit cigarette on the floor and stamps on it with the tip of his boot. His attention is now on the slowly expanding crown of people outside.

Cressida barges past me, bumping my shoulder and knocking me back into the building. “Well, excuse me,” I say under my breath.

In silence, the pair quickly climb the stairs together, and a moment later, I heard the distinct sounds of our flat door opening and then forcefully slamming shut.

A mighty gust forces salty remnants of council grit into my eye the moment I open the front door again. The wind then catapults my keycard out of my hand and into an overflowing gutter. With my now sodden card and one eye tightly shut, I march over to the front entrance and swipe my card through the small black box on one side of the gate.

Red light.

I swipe again, but this time I try a little slower.

Red light.

I try rubbing the back of the keycard against the side of my leggings; the murky gutter water must have done something to the magnetic strip.

Red light.

“Argh, you piece of shit!” I scream and miss the machine entirely on the fourth try.

“Would you like me to have a go?” A voice beyond the gate asks.

“No, thanks. I’ll have it in a sec.” Fifth swipe.

Red light.

The people behind let me know just how much of a hurry they’re in tonight. “Come on, it’s not that difficult.” One person says behind me.

“I have a date to get to,” another person moans in my ear.

“Pen, let me try.” The voice in front of me is a little more assertive this time, but it doesn’t sound annoyed with my sheer incompetence at opening a simple gate.

“I said, I’ve got this!” My temper is about to burst.

A hand slowly slides through the gate. A large hand. A familiar hand I’ve seen only once before.

Clutching my keycard like I’m a defective mannequin; I stare transfixed at the upturned palm. It reaches through the bars and slowly takes the card out of my clenched fist whilst gently brushing my fingers.

I can’t look at him, not like this. The state of my shirt catches my eye—the patchy red blobs that I can’t write off as a lousy tie-dye job stare back at me. It looks like blood, and lots of it too. Only now do I remember the blood in my hair. I had no time to clean it properly, just a quick swipe with a facecloth before applying it to my scalp.

Instantly, regret washed over me. I want to ask him for forgiveness, to explain myself and tell him that this, right here, is what I actually look like. Right down to what’s literally pumping through my veins. This is my worst, and I can’t bear for him to see it.

I’m suddenly disappointment in myself for not having gone to the gym months earlier and worked on my flabby bits. Instead, I stayed inside and binged on tea and chocolate. I could have saved my pennies for a new outfit. Something that would complement my complexion and made me look taller. But I spent it on art supplies and a poster.

I can’t be too hard on myself as I honestly never could have imagined that this day would come. Meeting Colin in person was a dream of a dream. Nothing more.

Lifting my eyes, I gaze through the iron bars that are thick with grime, and in that moment, all awareness of time and space fades away.

Where am I? Who am I? Why is he smiling at me?

He’s exactly as I remembered him from that day on the webcam, only in three dimensions. His hair is a little more windswept, and his cheeks a little more flushed. Not to mention, he’s fully clothed.

He’s the one who can’t maintain eye contact and breaks it first. Thank God, because I don’t think I could have done it with the memory of that little dance in the front of my mind. I follow his line of sight and watch in awe as he smoothly swipes the keycard. Naturally, he’s successful on the first attempt. Fate wouldn’t have it any other way, right?

He gallantly holds the gate open, but I, bewildered, gesture towards my flat and go the other way. Doesn’t he want to come in? A quick cuppa before his trip back home?

“You need to go to the hospital, Pen,” he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were unconscious. I’m here to help.”

Of course he’s here to take me to the hospital. Just like the gentleman he is. Considering my current situation, it wouldn't be surprising if he felt at least a small amount of guilt. After all, his ex-girlfriend got me into this mess. Well, more like a combination of her and maybe my lack of organisation skills.

Fine. I’ll take Colin’s offer of a free ride. A taxi would cost a fortune, and I’ve no idea where to catch the right bus. Lowering my head, I walk towards the gate. As I pass him, I try for a coy smile, but because my mouth is dry from the salty air and wind, my upper lip bonds to my top teeth, and it comes off more like a creepy smirk.

Someone has crookedly parked a silver hatchback on double yellow lines at the front of the building. Before I have time to ask if this car belongs to him, he rushes ahead and opens the front passenger door. His mother will be so proud.

The interior is tidy, with a stack of books piled high on the back seat, and a cardboard Starship Enterprise swinging from the rear-view mirror. I try to make myself as small as possible, tugging my t-shirt so only the clean-ish bits touch the seat, but I have a feeling my essence has already leaked into the fabric.

“Here,” Colin says and passes me a blue checked shirt from the back seat. “Just in case it bleeds again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I stuff the shirt under me, separating my mucky arse from the clean upholstery.

“No, not there.” He whips out the shirt in one effortless yank, then gently places it onto my head. The warmth from his fingers seeps through the cotton and into my bruised scalp, soothing the slight pounding that I hadn’t noticed had come back. The mixture of a spicy aftershave and musky sweat hit my senses. I close my eyes and seep into the heady mixture that is Colin.

His smell is something I’ve never thought about before. His eye colour, his hairstyle, the way he walks. All visual, and something I would notice at a distance. But this is different. It’s something I need to be close by to experience, and I finally am.

The warm interior eases my aching muscles. I want to fall asleep, but I know I can’t, not with a head injury—well, that’s what the movies say. Taking the shirt from his grasp, I peel it away from my head. “I think it’s stopped.” I say, reaching for the mirrored visor.

My early attempt at cleaning up my face wasn’t as meticulous as I had initially thought. One cheek has a stain of dark pink, and my hair has a skinny red dreadlock falling out of my messy ponytail. Were it not for the macabre connotations, I think dark red hair suits me more than my brassy ginger.

The distance to the nearest hospital isn’t that far, but the traffic has other plans for us.

I’m trying not to be too obvious, so I just watch him from my peripheral vision as he drives. He controls the car like it’s an extension of his own body, and while shifting gears he displays the sinewy flow of his exposed forearm. I can feel myself getting aroused as I watch him indicate to turn right.

I take a breath of relief when we stop at a junction, and he applies the handbrake. With temporary traffic lights and a queue about a mile long, it looks like we’ll be here for a while. I force my eyes to look away and put my sneaky side-eye on hold until we start back up again.

Unexpectedly, I make eye contact with some weirdo in the car next to me. He doesn’t seem to blink except for an odd twitch in his right eye. After a few seconds of an awkward staring contest, I notice the pink baseball cap he’s wearing says “Daddy’s Little Girl” in purple glitter.

The nearby engines and the two closed windows separating us muffle his first words to me. I can tell they’re not friendly, but the hat takes away all the menace out of it. He repeats himself with a much sterner expression, annunciating each syllable with such precision that a single tooth pops out of his mouth and disappears somewhere down the side of his seat.

I don’t need to be an expert in lip reading to know what he says when he sees me giggling. The utter shock on his face that I have the gall to laugh at his misfortune is priceless. I'm not sure why, but I suddenly feel compelled to further provoke him. Perhaps it's the significance of today, a day I've been envisioning in my dreams. I wanted to be at my best, or even simply clean and without a concussion. But this reality is far from dreamlike.

Daddy’s Little Girl throws me a few hand signals, and that’s when I know what I have to do.

“Do you have a marker pen in here?” I turn and ask Colin.

“I’m a teacher. Of course I do.” He reaches for the glove box and the back of his hand brushes my knee. We both pause, and the stretch of silence filling the car feels like an eternity. Just when I think he’s going to say something he clears his throat, and with a soft pop he opens the compartment. The moment between us is gone, but my moment to shine is about to begin. Inside are chewed up pencils, keyrings with swearwords, small bags of sweets, lighters, and even a packet of cigarettes. “Most of this stuff I’ve confiscated from students. I’m building a collection.”

I rummage through Colin’s treasures and pick out a black marker. I check it isn’t permanent and then colour in one of my front teeth. “What do you think?” I turn to Colin and smile.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

COLIN

Despite blood staining her shirt and the grime matting her hair; her smile holds a breathtaking glow. While it's completely new to me, there's a strange sense of familiarity with it. It feels as though her smile has been a constant presence in my life for as long as I can remember. I thought a smile was only a smile, but she’s proven me wrong.

I focus on that tooth she’s crudely blackened with marker pen and join her in laughing at the absurdity. Its silliness and charm are simply adorable.

She turns to the window and it allows me a moment to regain my composure by wiping away a tear. From this angle I can’t see her face, but from the reaction she’s getting from our new friend I can only imagine what she’s doing.

Daddy’s Little Girl is lit with such fury that his face resembles the red traffic-light up ahead. The more Penelope fixates on him, the more his rage intensifies. I almost want to egg her on to see if he’ll turn purple, but then I notice him reaching for his doorhandle.

“Shit, he’s getting out.” Pen cries as he takes a step onto the tarmac. In a state of panic, she forcefully grabs my hand on the gear stick. “Hurry!” she yells, still staring out of the window.

Instantly I shift the car into gear and mount the kerb, passing bewildered looking drivers queuing patiently for a green light. My legs tremble with the surge of adrenaline. I've always been law-abiding, but the thrill of this moment has completely overridden my better judgment. I can hear Penelope’s sharp intakes of breath as we swerve through the busy streets. It’s clear she’s as new to this life of crime as I am.

We find a moment of calm in a narrow back street; I slow down to a safer speed and finally breathe. That's when I realised Pen is still gripping the back of my hand. The magic of the moment is so fragile that I daren't move a muscle. If I could drive the rest of the trip in third gear with our hands like this, I would.

Suddenly Penelope recoils, and a look of alarm crosses her face. “Oh, sorry,” she exclaims, then quickly withdraws her hand and wraps it back in my shirt that’s still on her lap.

I reply with a smile, that I don’t feel it. The spell is broken.

The sun has just about set and the streetlights illuminate the road in a warm yellow glow. “Thanks for taking me to the hospital,” she says, while I drive into the visitor’s car park. “You didn’t have to.”

“When I heard you fall, I….” I wipe the sweat from my brow with a shaky hand. “…I didn’t know what to think.”

"Marina found out where I live," Penelope blurts out, her voice trembling slightly.

“How?” My foot accidentally taps the brake and we both jolt forward. “Sorry.”

Penelope’s silent, but I can see her thoughts churning behind her eyes. “It’s just come to me. The internal phone network. Anyone can log onto a campus computer with a student ID. It shows people’s names and the numbers of the telephones we all have in our rooms. They say it helps with group work. The dimwits in charge have yet to realise that the phone number gives the exact address for campus housing. The first two digits relate to the building, the following three are that flat number, and the room is last. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

I mentally file away what’s she’s just told me, the weight of its significance a muted hum in my thoughts. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about that right now, so how about we get that head of yours looked at first?”

“To be honest, I don’t think I would have gone if you hadn’t come to get me. It was lovely finally to meet you. Thanks again.” Exiting the car, she immediately begins walking toward the entrance; a look of surprise crosses her face when I quickly catch up to her and walk alongside.

“You don’t think this is goodbye, do you? I’m not leaving you. Not until I know that noggin of yours is in full working order.”

She laughs, then knocks on the side of my head with her knuckles. “It’s still operating to standards.”

“I dunno…” Should I say it? It’s what we do, after all. We reach the automatic doors to A&E and just as Penelope steps into the lobby, I take a deep breath and say just loud enough for her alone to hear, “…Not once have I heard you say you want to suck my cock.” I head towards the check-in desk, leaving her standing still just outside the entrance. Her face radiating a hot pink glow.

Pink, really suits her.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

PENELOPE

I assume the original colouring of the waiting room was more vibrant back in its day. Be it the cleaning crew’s heavy-handed scrubbing or the sun bleaching the walls into swirls of sickly-sweet pinks and greens. I’d take my magnolia over this, any day.

I can’t believe I’m analysing the wall colours after what Colin has just said to me. Did I hear him correctly? Surely not. I’ll blame it on the head injury.

A handful of patients sprawl themselves across connecting chairs. I roll my eyes at one smug-looking teenager when I have to sit next to his muddy trainer while it’s propped up with a bag of frozen peas draped over his ankle. I hope it hurts like a bitch. 

“Penelope Featherington?” A feminine voice calls from the other side of the room.

Like the good little student, I raise my hand and follow the triage nurse into an exam room, leaving Colin looking through old magazines.

The nurse sits at a small desk in the corner and reads through my notes while I pull myself up onto the hospital exam bed, ruffling the paper covering as I sit.  

“You don’t mind if a student looks in on the exam, do you?” She asks, not taking her eyes off the stack of notes in front of her.

“N-No, not at all.”

The door opens, and a young woman with cropped hair and brown eyes walks in. “Kate?” I say as I stare wide-eyed at my old roommate.

“Hey, Pen. I thought I recognised your name on the chart. It’s good to see you again,” she says with a smile. “But I would have liked to see you in one piece. What happened?” She points to my head and t-shirt, then folds her arms around a clipboard she holds close to her chest.

“I tripped over a shoe and hit my head on that floating shelf by the bed. Do you remember those?”

“Wait. Are you still living there? With…her?” The worry in Kate’s voice causes the senior nurse to look up for the first time.

“Well, yeah.” I glace between the pair. “The other student halls are out of my price range. Besides, it’s only for one year. I’ve lasted this long. What’s a few more months?”

“Kate, what’s going on?” The senior nurse asks.

Listening to Kate tell the nurse about her few weeks at Yellow Haven sounds like she’s talking about some place wonderful. She unpacks the moments of the early days when we made that flat a home. I’d completely forgotten about the rainbow flag she wanted to hang in the kitchen window and the pug shaped rug in the hallway.

“So, why did you leave?” I’m finally able to ask her after all this time. It’s just a shame I’m just about to have my brain scanned before I get the entire story.

“C-Cressida, of course.” Fear shining in her eyes as she struggles to speak. Her words catching in her throat in a nervous stammer.

Colin is still sitting where I left him, but now his attention is rapt in an article in Menopause Monthly. Before I’m within speaking distance, he sees me and his face breaks into a dazzling grin. “Are you going to live? Can they still reattach? Is it a boy or a girl?” He asks loud enough for the entire room to hear.

“I’ll be alright,” I tell him; but I can’t find his humour after Kate’s bombshell. “They’ve discharged me, but I have to come back if the headache persists. I just need to take it easy for a few days.”

 The teenager who still hasn’t moved from his lounging position across three connecting chairs, sniggers behind my back and mimics my voice. I take no notice unlike Colin, who turns to me and winks. “Gimme a sec?”

The kid can’t hide his panic behind a mocking facade any longer. He pushes up in his seat and looks at his mum for support, who’s reading an upside-down DIY magazine. A sly smile spreads over Colin’s face as he crouches down in front of the little tyke. “Getting hair down there is perfectly normal,” Colin pats the boy’s uninjured knee, “but next time, don’t balance on the toilet when you’re trying to shave it off.”

The mum hides her face inside the magazine, her shoulders shaking.

“Shut up! I was playing football, you prick.” The boy’s face turns scarlet. “Tell him, Mum!” But just as his mum opens her mouth, a nurse calls his name.

Colin feeds a crisp ten-pound note into the ticket machine and doesn’t get much change back. Not only has this man dropped everything to take me to the hospital, but now he’s paying for it, too. I rub my hands over my hips where my pockets should be and remember that cheap leggings don’t come with them.

“I hope you have a spare sleeping bag because I left mine at home,” Colin says.

“Er…”

“Don’t worry if you don’t have one. I shouldn’t be resting when I have a job that needs my full attention.” He puffs out his chest like some kind of superhero.

“What job?”

“Keeping an eye on you, of course. Didn’t the doctor say something about not sleeping if you have a concussion? Or did I see that on the telly somewhere?”

We drive back to my flat in complete silence, my mind racing with what Kate had revealed to me. Did Cressida bully Winny into moving out, too?

I think back to the week after both Kate and Winny moved out. Cressida was her usual self, not remotely bothered that there were two fewer people in the flat. Our communal area became barren overnight, the atmosphere cold and unwelcoming—a sight that would eventually become the norm.

But why did Cressida leave me alone? Was I not worth ejecting like them? She could have had the whole flat to herself if she wanted. I recall the conversation Cressida and the man in the flat cap had outside my bedroom door. He asked why I was still here. “Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t get in the way.” Cressida said just before she called me a loner. But get in the way of what?

Funnily enough, I don’t have any problems with the outside gate when we return home. Colin still plays the perfect gentleman and holds it open for me. My smile of thanks seems to function properly this time.

We ascend the stairs to my flat, and I become more embarrassed about my chosen accommodation the further we climb. The stains on the carpet, the profanity etched into the metal handrail, the screams from flat 162. 

“Hello.” Cressida’s nauseating smile startles me when I open the door to my flat. She stands in the hallway, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen. An off-the-shoulder top reveals her flawless skin, and her tight jeans emphasise a pair of shapely legs. If I didn’t already know Cressida was the personification of a prolapsed anus, I would say she looks nice, even pretty. Her usual severe appearance is probably tucked away with her horns and pitchfork under her bed.

“Oh, hello,” I reply. I can’t hide the scepticism in my voice, but it doesn’t matter; it isn’t me Cressida’s addressing. Her eye-line is going straight over my head to the tall drink of water bringing up the rear.

“Hi?” Colin says, following me into the flat and shutting the front door behind us.

“Are you here for the party? You’re the first one.”

“What party?” I say, while unlocking my bedroom door.

“God, you’re not the only one who lives here, you know.” Cressida walks past, brushing my shoulder as she goes, and stands between me and Colin.

This woman has some nerve.

Grabbing my hand, he proclaims, “I’m with her,” pulling me through the doorway and slamming the door in Cressida’s face.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY

With a click of the lock, Colin seals us in our own private bubble, shutting out the noise and worries of the world. I’m just thankful my bubble only has paper on the floor and not dirty laundry for once. I take a moment to pick up the last few remaining pieces I left lying about before I went to the hospital.

It’s the first time I’ve had someone other than El and Fran in here. Compared to Colin, the room appears miniature. He stands with his back against my bedroom door, nervously slapping his phone against his thigh, while the other hand is motionless inside his pocket. I assume it’s from nervousness, because I certainly am.

He scans the room behind me, taking in all of what’s mine. This place is tiny, so his inspection shouldn’t take too long.

“So that’s where the magic happens.” He points with his chin over my shoulder, a slight hint of red in his cheeks.

A swift glance confirms my suspicion that he’s noticed my unconventional sex aid, my computer. I hold my head up high and puff out my chest. “That’s right. I’ve made you cum dozens of times while on that thing. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s taught me everything I know.” I want to say those words out loud, but he walks past me before I get the chance. Who am I kidding? I would never say those words aloud.

 He plonks himself in front of my monitor and stares at the blackened screen. His form dominates my small desk chair, yet the cheap plastic hasn’t creaked since his peachy rear came into contact with it.

Traitor.

Should I offer him a cup of tea? Oh no, what if he’s a coffee drinker? I twist my fingers around my keys until my damaged nail bed catches on a jagged edge. My eyes widen as I try to hold back a hiss of pain. I don’t want him thinking I need another trip to A&E so soon. Perhaps a warm soak will help?

Without him noticing, I slip my hand into my top drawer and remove the first set of knickers I find, then a pair of old striped pyjama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt rom the next drawer down. “I’m just going to jump in the shower.” I tell him, but he doesn’t answer me. Whatever it is on that blank screen sure has his attention. As I enter the bathroom, my keys collide with the doorframe, the loud noise seems to do the trick and gets his attention.

He stands “Oh, certainly. I’ll wait in the kitchen. I can make us both a cup of tea?”

He’s a tea drinker!

Although I can’t believe I’m going to turn down a cuppa. For his own sake, he can’t be in the same room as Cressida. “Please, stay.”

He sits back down with a smile while I nip into my bathroom.

There isn’t a lock on this door and technically there’s a stranger on the other side of it. Lady_W would have a field day with this scenario and would know exactly what to do. She’s the kind of person to leave it ajar and keep showering until he comes to check she hasn’t drowned. She’d make passionate love under the spray, contorting her body into shapes that would be impossible for the average person in a three-by-three cubical. However, I can’t afford to spare the hot water while I wait for his gentlemanly prowess to slip. And I'm too scared to go through with it. Not in real life, anyway.

Suddenly my sex-craved mind veers off course, and I feel a little apprehensive of my vulnerable position. There’s a man on the other side of this door, locked inside my room. Technically, I’ve never met Colin before. Just like I never met Debling before our date, either. A man could do anything to me while I’m in the shower, and I don’t even have my phone. Cressida wouldn’t break down my door if I screamed. If anything, she’d only turn up her music.

I slip a keys through the gaps in my fingers, holding them tightly in my clenched fist. Am I over-reacting? I step back from the door, trembling. An entire minute passes, and the handle remains completely motionless. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to step inside? I turn on the shower, frolicking a hand beneath the spray to entice him.

Nothing.

I drop my keys in… what, relief? Disappointment?

I strip, then jump in and the hot water quickly soothes my aches and pains. I carefully clean the dry blood from my finger, and the encrusted crimson staining my hair feels rough against my skin as I wash it away. Once done, I feel cleansed and tired.

Upon my return to my bedroom, adorned in my cosy pink bathrobe layered over my pjs and sporting a towel wrapped around my head, I’m unsure of how to handle myself.

“I’m sorry I got you into all of this,” Colin blurts out, taking the awkward silence out of my hands. His eyes are slightly downcast as he spills his weighty words in one deep breath. “Maybe we should have kept it… you know…but, I guess I’m sorta glad it turned out this way.” A dimple appears in his left cheek as he grins in my direction. It’s a feature he never once revealed to me through our long chats and short time on camera. I tilt my head and stare at the slight indentation. I’m glad I discovered it for myself in person. “You’ve become one hell of a friend to me, Penelope.” He finishes.

And there it is. The word I was hoping never to hear come from him, but somewhat expected. I’m just a friend. Or am I a friend with digital benefits? “My friends call me Pen.” I’ll give him that. Disappointment stings, a bitter taste in my mouth, but I’d be stupid to throw away a friendship. Eventually this feeling will fade, and I'll be there for him when he finds that special someone; I'll be able to stand by him with a genuine smile. Perhaps not genuine, but Colin will never know that.

“Pen. Nice. It suits you.”

“Don’t you have to work in the morning?” I cross my arms and sit on the corner of my bed. A frustrated agitation is replacing my initial disappointment. If I don’t calm down, I know I'm going to unleash my frustration on Colin, and I don’t want to. He doesn’t deserve it.  

“I phoned earlier. My boss gave me a little time off.”

“Oh.”

Our faces snap to the door as a bass guitar pulses through the walls. I can feel each note rumble through my body. One track is swapped out for another until the ideal song is chosen, then the volume amplifies tenfold.

“It’s a good job you don’t have a head injury,” Colin says as he rings out his ear.

“She’s done worse. At least I don’t have any food in the cupboard that her friends can help themselves to. After the day I’ve had, a little music isn’t too bad.” It's clear what happened, so there's no need for me to reveal the identity of the individual who caused this.

The silence stretches on and on, a palpable tension between us until at last he speaks. “Marina used to have this bubbly personality,” he sighs. “She knew everyone by a stupid nickname at this pub she worked at. I found it adorable. She called me Teach. It wasn’t very imaginative, but I liked it. We chatted for weeks over a few pints whenever I came in with George.” He shakes his head and laughs, but the humour doesn’t reflect in his eyes.

“He tried to talk me out of dating her, but I wouldn’t listen. I asked her out and the next thing I know, we’d been together for six months. When I look back now, I can see we had problems.” He turns to me, a hesitant look on his face, and asks, “Should we have ended sooner?… Probably,” his voice trailing off, tinged with regret. He shrugs, then spins side to side in my chair for almost a minute.

I don’t dare interrupt his reverie, I can tell he’s just trying to find the right words.

“Bit of a cliché, finding her in bed with my best mate. I wish I’d listened to him. I’d just presumed it was because he didn’t like her, and not because he wanted her for himself. Shit, I wasn’t going to tell you this next bit, but…”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

“…I got a phone call from my ex-landlord. He said there was a break-in at my old flat. He wanted to know if I might have known anything about it.”

“Why did he think you would know something?” I question.

“There was a post-it note left in the kitchen. I used to do that, you see. If I needed reminding of something I’d write a post-it and stick it to a door, a wall, a mirror. It’s an old habit I can’t shift. Even the landlord knew I did it.”

“So, what? The new tenants don’t use post-its?”

“Actually, the place has been vacant since I moved out.” He takes a breath then adds, “The note was stuck to a block of kitchen knives I left behind, and one was missing. It said they would return the knife, and it was signed with the initial, M.”

My brow furrows. “Wait, wait, wait.” I hold up a palm, halting the rest of his tale. “This story sounds like the opening scene of a cheesy slasher movie.”

“Marina’s had two opportunities to hurt me, and she hasn’t done it. I thought I was calling her bluff.”

“No, she wouldn’t hurt you, Colin.”

“I know that now. And that’s what scares the hell out of me.” He buries his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Pen.”

“Are you ever going to the police?”

“I’ll go to the station after I know you’re not going to die in your sleep from a concussion.” His voice rises sharply as our eyes suddenly connect. The intensity of his gaze pierces through me. The heaviness of our breathing mirrors the intensity of a powerful storm.

“You know,” his expression relaxes and a lazy smile creeps onto his face. “I didn't expect to be chatting about Marina so early on.”

“Well you brought her up.” I say under my breath.

“Can’t we just start again? Maybe put the telly on?”

I scooch back on my bed, my back against the headboard, extending my legs and finding a more comfortable position under my duvet. The weight of the towel on my head is uncomfortable, and I fear my headache will return if I don’t get rid of it soon. I toss it on the floor and then use my fingers to fluff my hair, my curls springing back into place.

With a swoop of my hand, I snatch the remote from the floor and turn on the TV to a random channel. It’s the news. Something about a prostitution ring flashes on the screen just before I change it again. I flip through the entire range of free channels as Colin gets up and ambles over to the bed.

I halt my button-pushing and feign interest in a show. Out of the corner of my eye, I stalk Colin’s movements, trying to predict where he plans to settle in for the foreseeable future.

He kicks off his shoes by toeing them at the heel and stands by the bed with his hands in his pockets. “May I?” He asks and glances at the small amount of space next to me on the bed.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” I budge up to give him room, which on a single bed isn’t much. My left arm is flush against the icy wall, while my other is resting on my lap, clutching the remote for dear life.

With just enough room to spare he sits next to me, lifting his long legs on the bed and crossing them at the ankles. He doesn’t move, and I’m too aware of him to move either. My heart is beating out of my chest, and I pray he can’t feel it. I suppose I could always blame it on the drum and bass coming through the thin plaster.

After a few minutes, I finally start to relax. Colin turns to me, and his minty breath caressing the side of my face. “Do you think she’s faking it?” He whispers.

I can’t help but look confused as I turn to stare back at him, our noses are only couple of inches apart. I can see the tiny flecks of green in a sea of blue. “Faking what?” I say as I hold back the drool.

“The couple that’s getting frisky on the pool table.” He raises one eyebrow at the word frisky.

“Wait. What?” Then it finally registers. What we’ve been watching for the past few minutes isn’t a benign game show or a comedic throwback from the 90s, but a scene from a romantic drama that would make even the most stoic White Walker moan with pleasure.

Shit, shit, shit!

Do I change the channel and look like a prude, or carry on watching and make it look like I did it on purpose? I choose the latter and watch it unfold before me—every nude-coloured pixel of it. Each moan is deafening, and with every grunt, the walls vibrate. I need to turn down the volume, but my fingers have atrophied. The remote lays dormant in my sweaty palm.

“They’re together in real life, you know. I wonder if he really slips it in when they do scenes like this. I suppose if they’re together, they’re not going to HR for inappropriate conduct in the workplace. Or maybe it's just uncomfortable for the director…and the key grips…and the gophers that have just walked on set with a coffee and a jam donut.”

And just like that, the tension leaves the room as quickly as Road Runner leaving the scene of the calamity. Even in my head, his little “meep, meep” makes the whole situation funnier.

I shimmy down the bed, covering my head with the lumpy duvet, hiding my face and the hideous snorting sounds that are coming out of it. Just when I think I’m going to pass out from lack of oxygen, I feel a weight on my right side. The duvet is wrested from my desperate hold, exposing me to the brisk, rejuvenating air and the alluring aroma of Colin’s zesty aftershave. He leans over me, a glossiness to his eyes and a pink tinge to his cheeks. He lowers his head further, and I know what’s coming because I’ve seen it in the movies. A shine that turns into a twinkle when he stares into my soul.

He drops his gaze, and my eyes do the same. His plump lips look inviting, and I can already taste his breath — a mixture of mint and masculinity. Every time he exhales, I can feel a part of him enter me between my separated lips. I begin to close my eyes because that’s what people do, right? 

BANG, BANG, BANG.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” A muffled voice from behind the door tears us apart. Another round of banging, scratching, and kicking ensues.

“That’s a lovely flatmate you have there,” Colin says, with a slight smirk on his face.

It appears the interruption is more of a prelude to whatever is going to happen between us. I grip the excess fabric of Colin’s shirt sleeves, a vain attempt to halt his movements and pull him back towards me. A tactic that’s seemingly working. The banging ceases, and I’m the centre of his attention once again.

“Marina, don’t go yet. The party’s just started.” Cressida’s whiny pleas echo down the corridor.

My stomach drops.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“Go!” I shout in Colin’s ear, and for a split second, a look of shock and sadness crosses his face. The pain appearing in his eyes is heartbreaking as he looks down at my face, taking it all in like he’s never going to see it again.

On instinct alone, my hand rises to gently cup his cheek. “Go get that bitch,” our lips barely a whisper apart.

He lets out a breath and leaps off the bed, but stumbles to the door. Panic seizing his hands, turning them into useless lumps of flesh as he frantically fumbles with the lock. “Help!” he cries.

“I’m coming!” I swing my legs off the bed but unintentionally bring the duvet with me. With a thump, I collapse onto the floor. My limbs folding in on themselves while the duvet wraps around me like a cocoon. From deep within the bundle of fabric, I poke out my arm and blindly grasp for the lock.

The hard rectangular metal is unusually warm, but I don’t have time to study it like I’m reading brail. With a firm grip, I try to pull it open so that I may aid in Colin’s pursuit.

“Pen, that’s not…”

A final tug sends me sprawling backward. It’s only when a heavy object falls on top of me do I realise I wasn't holding the lock. Through a small opening in the fluffy duvet, I glimpse Colin's crotch and his large metal belt buckle. He rolls off of me, and unexpectedly an eye materialises in the opening to my hole, startling me. It doesn’t express panic in the slightest. All I see is concern, then determination.

“The lock is a little stiff. Just give it a good yank and go get her!” I know my voice sounds muffled inside my cocoon, but from Colin’s reaction, he heard it clear enough.

It’s just the motivation he needs to get up and operate the tricky fucker. Once unlocked, he pauses and glances back at my eye, the only part of me that’s still visible to the outside world. In the midst of the unbroken silence, a deep and meaningful exchange occurs between us, connecting us in a way that transcends words.

“But I can’t leave you like this,” Colin’s expression says.

“Don’t you dare help me. I got this. You get Marina.” My eye replies.

With a nod, he hurtles into the hallway and into a small crown of partygoers gathering by the open doorway. “Get out of my way,” I hear him use a growl that could scare the most ferrous of year 8’s.

The process of unravelling myself is more manageable now that I've stopped rushing. Colin’s going to get Marina, bring her back, and we can finally talk this through. Perhaps with a police presence. I know Cressida is going to love me after tonight.

Colin’s only been gone about thirty seconds, but that’s thirty seconds too long. I grab my keys, make sure my bathrobe is secure, and head into the outer hallway. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with Colin’s hunt for Marina, I would congratulate Cressida on gathering so many people in such a short amount of time. Could it be that I'm simply uninformed about how well-liked Cressida is and how different our social circles are? Nah, I like to believe she’s paying them to be here.

Half-way down the stairs, I find Colin gripping the banister in a tight fist as he climbs back up to my floor. Seeing his dejected expression and without company, I immediately question him. “It wasn’t her, was it? It was just a prank.”

He doesn’t reply but simply holds out a small card. “Whoever it was, I didn’t see them. But they dropped this just outside the gate.”

From his outstretched fingers I take the card and instantly I know what it is. I’ve had five of them this year, and they’ve all been the same. I also know that if I turn it over, there’ll be a black magnetic strip down one edge. A swipe card for the black boxes throughout the complex. As I flip it over, a wave of icy coldness washes over me. In bold black marker and in my handwriting, I see the words “Pen Featherington” stark against the white plastic.

He slumps his shoulders, his gaze falling to the ground as he absentmindedly tousles his already dishevelled hair, a sigh escaping his lips. The sight almost brings me to tears, his frustration clear and mirroring my own.

I descend the steps that separate us slowly and steadily. Lifting my arms, I gently fold them around his neck, pulling him softly into my chest. His large hands move around my ribs, caging me in. The intimacy feels natural, like we’ve done this a million times before.

“What are we going to do now?” I whisper into his ear as he rests his head in the crook of my neck.

“Want to get Chinese? I saw a place across the street.” He lifts his head and gives me a small smile.

“I’ve never been there before. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you if it’s any good.”

“Let’s get one, anyway. My treat.”

“All right, but I’ll buy the prawn crackers.”

We squeeze through the thick crowds littering the stairs and push our way back into my bedroom with a wonderfully smelling carrier bag, and a complimentary bag of prawn crackers. Sitting on my bed, we eat straight from the containers while our voices compete with the blaring music outside. We talk about his time at university and the number of takeaways he got through. Leftover pizza for breakfast, eating burger and chips out of a traffic cone, and getting food poisoning from a dodgy chicken kebab. We discuss our favourite movies and music, and chat about family members, and the most embarrassing moments of our lives.

We talk about everything, but we don’t go near the naughty stuff. In a way I’m glad, because it feels like we’re getting to know each other for the first time. Taking our time and just being good friends.

God, who am I kidding?

Most of the time I’ve had to stop myself from staring. I’ve caught myself fixating on the swoosh of his hair, the sharp angle of his jaw, or the juicy fullness of his lips. Twice I’ve had to mentally dive into a bath of ice.

It’s five in the morning when Cressida finally turns down the music. The eerie silence jars me awake, and I find myself slumped across Colin’s body. As my head rests on his shoulder, I can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. His left arm lies lifeless behind me, although I remember it tenderly stroking my shoulder a few hours ago.

Unfortunately, he’s lost his heroic fight to stay up all night and watch over my potential concussion. But that’s fine with me, because I think the whole sleeping-with-a-concussion thing is a complete myth, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Spending this time together has been irreplaceable, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

The unfamiliarity of this physical contact makes me reluctant to disrupt it, as I worry this wonderful moment may be fleeting. Is this what I’ve been missing this whole time? The physical affection I thought wasn’t necessary.

With a light hand, I run my palm over his torso, then wrap my arm around his sleeping form and squeeze. Regardless of if I’m just a friend, at this exact moment in my head, he’s my partner, my boyfriend, my love.

There I said it.

It’s not like I wasn’t capable of love, or thought I wasn’t good enough for it. I just didn’t think it was for me. But this man has changed all that. A bit of a nymphomaniac with a hint of nerd. Not to mention the introvertedness of it all. Who would have guessed I would have met someone just like me in a disreputable-looking website, with nineties graphics and a few spelling mistakes on the front page?

My eyes tear, but I don’t want to wipe them away and stir him awake. Instead I leave them to drip onto his checked shirt and watch them bleed into the fabric. His aftershave has long gone, but what I can smell is comfort, warmth, and protection. I didn’t even know those things had a smell until now.

I snuggle into his side a little further—my body flush with his. Our feet practically intertwine like vines running up a tree. There’s nothing sexual about this. My girly parts are content and silent. Lady_W’s knowledge of intimacy, although vast, sadly lacks in this department. What was a cuddle to Lady_W, but time wasted.

I’ve hugged El and Fran when they needed it after a breakup. They held me the night I came back with tears running down my cheeks after the incident with Debling. Both cuddles ended after less than a minute. But this is different.

My tears fall with vigour. My once adamant belief that sex is all that I wanted, finally crumbles. I release my hold of him and lift my head to look at his face. His relaxed features, free from worry, are mere inches from mine. I almost want to pinch his cheeks to check if they’re real. Perhaps I should pinch mine to see if I’m not dreaming, either.

My gaze travels down his floppy right arm, then over his stomach, and down to his…

I stare at the pinstriped obelisk before me. Despite their snug fit around the thighs, his slacks afford enough space for the monument to stand proudly. Luckily, the zipper has enough strength to keep the monster at bay. But for how long, nobody knows.

His breathing is steady, showing no signs of change. I’m conflicted. Do I wake Colin to allow him some privacy to rearrange the growing beast? Or sit, say nothing, and watch the dance of the rising sun, all in the comfort of my bed? I bite my lip as my mind goes back and forth, trying to decide what to do, all while staring directly at it.

Without blinking, I watch as the crotch of his trousers gets tighter and tighter. Then it nods at me like a novelty dippy bird that sits on a desk, pretending to drink water from a glass.

Well, that’s something they don’t tell you in the romance books.

Up and down, it goes to a tempo so familiar to me, and I can’t help but sing along “Weee will, weee will…,”

“…Rock you!” I’m startled by the sound of Colin’s drowsy voice, causing me to jerk my head up and unintentionally bump into his face. When I see a small pebble of blood on his bottom lip, all thoughts of his hard-on fade away.

“Fuck! Shit! Sorry.” I roll over him, tumbling off the bed and landing face first on the floor. “I have a paster around here somewhere.”

Rummaging through the first drawer I come to, I throw small pieces of material over my shoulder. Frantically I search for the big first-aid kit my mum insisted I bring when I left home. It’s funny that I remember the thing now and not when I almost lost a finger or cut my head open. I’ll just blame my absentmindedness on Marina. I'm becoming more and more accustomed to doing that.

Aha!

With an eye roll, I run to my bathroom and emerge seconds later with a large spool of cotton gauze, a roll of medical tape, a tiny pair of scissors, and four different sizes of plaster. “What do you need? I have large, small, Star Wars or Mickey Mouse?”

I release my grip and scatter the items onto the now unoccupied bed. Completely baffled by the vacant space, I spin around only to find Colin sitting on my squeaky chair with my Kermit the Frog knickers dangling from his index finger.

“I remember you telling me about these. Where’s the Animal pair?”

“I’m wearing them.” I blurt out.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

My once tidy-ish bedroom has become a jumble sale in my frantic search for the means to treat Colin’s injured lip. My top drawer looks to have vomited its contents all around my bedroom. Multiple pairs of knickers and bras hang over the sides, while half a dozen balls of socks dot the floor. But it isn’t those that are causing my cheeks to turn into balls of fire—it’s the single pair dangling from Colin’s forefinger that’s doing that. Their momentum is keeping pace with my erratic breathing, and it doesn’t appear to be slowing down soon. “Er, for your lip,” I finally say, then hold out the huge, comically sized roll of medical bandage.

With a raise of an eyebrow and a slight shrug of a shoulder, he presses a finger to his lip, which comes away dry. “Looks like I won’t need it after all. It is a little sore, though,” he pauses, “Will you kiss it better?”

The room grows even hotter, and my skin becomes clammy under my baggy pyjamas. What happened to just being friends? I open my mouth to ask just that question, but change my mind. Instead, I consider his request.

My first instinct is that he’s asking for a “no-hard-feelings” kind of kiss. Something closer to a peck on the cheek. Colin feels guilty that I feel guilty about head-butting him. I’ve run into El multiple times, causing her to fall. Her six-inch platforms shoes make it effortless to knock her off balance. After a quick hug, all is forgiven. Is Colin doing the same?

He rolls my knickers between his fingers, testing the fabric with the pad of his thumb. Now there’s something I haven’t seen my closest friends do. Even when Kathy pairs up my socks, she doesn’t feel up my knickers.

Perhaps it’s a pity kiss?

For a moment, I divert my gaze from my knicker in order to assess him. Even from multiple feet away, just by leaning forward he creates the feeling that he’s invading my personal space. A flicker of pink moistens his bottom lip while his eyes bore into mine. Is that…desire?

I unstick my bare feet from the floor and edge towards him. It’s only when I get within arm’s length do I notice a slight tremor in his hand, causing my knickers to swing in a different direction. His quivering demeanour suddenly boosts my once flailing confidence. It seems the more nervous he gets, the calmer I become.

His dilated pupils roam around the contours of my face as I stand before him. I want to pull away and hide my flaws like I always do, but this time I don’t. Overcoming my reluctance, I permit him to examine the freckled mug I’ve kept hidden away for what seems like an eternity. Warts and all.

“Is this what you were expecting?” I cautiously throw out my arms to the side as I timidly ask about my body. Since he first saw me through the iron bars of the front gate, I’ve been eager to know the answer.

There was once a time when I felt no makeup and a messy bun represented my least attractive self. Oh, how wrong I was. I’m clean and comfortable, and if he doesn’t like what he sees, he can leave with my blessing, and I won’t even have to change clothes to rot in bed for a week after the rejection.

At least I’d uncover the truth within the confines of this room. I’d appreciate it if my embarrassment remained confidential and just between us, avoiding any recording or sharing with others, like what happened with Debling.

Confusion knots his brow. “I would have said no at first,” he pauses and looks me up and down, “you were pretending to be so many people that it was hard to know the real you. But now we’ve met, you’re not a surprise to me. I think I still could’ve picked you out of a thousand-person lineup before today.”

“How though? I gave you the basics. My hair colour. Eye colour. Even then, you wouldn’t’ve known if I was lying to you.”

“True, you skimped on some details. Like, you failed to mention that freckle under your left eye. The way the corners of your mouth turn up even when you aren’t smiling. I didn’t even know that you bite your fingernails,” Colin says with a chuckle and glances at my poorly pinkie.

“But what about the rest of me?” With anxiety bubbling inside, I twist the gauze ball nervously in my hands.

With a focused gaze, he studies me intently. Taking moments to pause at areas that pique his curiosity before continuing to the rest of me. “I don’t understand what you’re ask….”

“I’m fat!” I interrupt.

“Who told you that?” Colin says with anger lacing his voice.

“Well, Cressida on the daily, and my mum hasn’t been too kind with her words since I was twelve. Then there was ….” I take a breath. “Well, let’s just say someone else banged the final nail in that coffin.”

“Do you think you’re fat?”

I turn around and hold my tears at bay, then throw the gauze onto my bed with a little too much force. That’s when I spot my little makeup mirror on my death trap of a shelf. “I dunno,” I mutter as I skim my free hand down my belly, then set my fists on my hips. My baggy t-shirt and bottoms hide whatever figure I might have. My hair is still damp from my shower and hangs in clumps around my face. This is my barest form—the untouched, unplucked, unkempt version.

“Well, I’m not gonna tell you. You don’t need my validation to realise you’re….” He doesn’t finish his sentence, and when I turn around to see if the answer is in his face, he looks past me and into the mirror.

I turn back to the mirror and stare at my reflection, taking a moment to fix my posture and tousle my hair. Wet strands flop over to one side, partially covering my eye in a playful, Jessica Rabbit-esque manner. With a twist of my body, my baggy t-shirt becoming tighter, moulding to my figure. Surprise washes over me as I notice my nipples becoming erect beneath the fabric, leading me to promptly cross my arms in an attempt to conceal them. I forgot to put on a bra.

The room fills with an alluring moan that instantly grabs my attention. I turn and discover Colin staring at the ceiling, happily humming a tune. Avoiding my gaze as his cheeks turn a deep shade of red.

A small surge of confidence and self-acceptance fills me. I haven’t removed my dorky glasses and taken down my hair and discovered I have a model’s silhouette like they do in the movies. It’s a subtle feeling, present but not overpowering. I’m still me, and I think he likes what he sees.

A crooked smile spreads across my face as an idea slowly takes shape. With a sense of curiosity, I begin by gently peeling away my arms, allowing my hands to glide down my torso.

Lifting the roll of bandage off the bed, I unravel a section, then fling a loop around Colin’s torso, and pull. When I pull him and my chair closer, the wheels make a little squeak, as if they've finally surrendered to my rule.  

Leaning in, I hesitate for a second before placing a single peck on his bottom lip. “Better?” I ask in a whisper.

He opens his mouth, but only a stuttering assortment of words falls out. Opting for something else, he seizes the back of my neck and forcefully smashes his mouth onto mine. His lips are warm and soft, yet supple and unyielding all at the same time. It’s everything I imagined and yet nothing like I expected. Our kiss deepens, and tongues tangle.

He yanks me forward, and I straddle his lap. Firm thighs, a warm chest, and brawny arms replace the uncomfortable rigidity of my old chair. If I could sit like this for the rest of the year, I would gladly toss it away with a smile.

His hands travel south, drawing large circles on each cheek of my bum, kneading the squashy flesh with his entire hand.

To clench or not to clench?

Does wanting to appear petite and firm trump the truth? After a moment, I give in to this dilemma and let it all hang loose just as a loud swat hits my left cheek. It looks like I made the right decision after all.

I rip open his shirt, something I’ve always wanted to do since reading my first bodice ripper. Until now, I never knew there were consequences to this act. A button pops off, flying toward a wall light. It pings on the plastic and ricochets across an unknown trajectory, never to be seen again.

To my surprise, he grasps the backs of my knees and stands, lifting me into his arms. We separate for the briefest of moments for him to ask, “Shall we find a place a little more comfortable?” He hikes me up, and I squeal in his ear while smushing my face against his.

“Just don’t drop me.”

He laughs and bounces me in his arms like I weigh nothing at all.

“Do that again, and I’ll choke the life out of you.” I say as I lift the bandage still hanging from him and loosely wrap it around his neck.

Suddenly he comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of his stride, defying my assumptions that he would simply lie us down on the bed, with my hair splaying across the pillow like some glamourous Bond girl. He plants my feet firmly on the floor and steps away. With a swift motion, he hooks the chair with his toe and pulls it back under him, leaving me confused. He sits with his chest deliciously exposed. His shirt hanging off his shoulders and his knees wide apart. The smirk on his face tells me this isn’t a rebuff; he’s just passing me the ball.

My confusion turns to panic. What do I do? My thoughts scatter, leaving me uncertain and perplexed. But I’m Lady_W, right? Didn’t I write the book on what comes next in these situations?

He then leans backwards, his hands resting on his thighs. With a smirk sliding across his handsome face, he patiently waits for my response, because he knows I’ve always had one.

The colour in my cheeks changes from an arousing rouge to an embarrassing blush. As time ticks by, Colin remains motionless, causing my conviction to waver. Perhaps I’m more of a rookie than I initially thought. He’s going to discover my lack of experience, then leave—I just know it. Contrary to his belief, I’m not the Lady_W he assumes me to be. I’m all whizz and no bang.

“If you don’t want to do anything…” He opens his mouth to continue, but I cut him off with a finger to his lips. With gentle and deliberate movements, I slowly remove the rest of his shirt, taking care to not rush the process. Leaning in, I softly inquire in his ear while lightly grazing his lobe with my bottom lip. “Comfortable?” 

All I receive is a nod in return.

I stare down at his naked chest. “Do you remember that time you danced for me?” I have a strong desire to touch his chest. Feel the texture from root to tip, but I hold off. Instead, a giggle bubbles to the surface as I admit… “I couldn’t resist but to take a couple of screenshots as a keepsake. Countless times, I’ve replayed that night in my head, reliving every movement. And then I thought about continuing on from where you left off.”

“You did?”

“We ended up right over there.” He follows my gaze to my single bed. “It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but we made do.”

“Tell me more.” He pleads.

“I stood and cheered as you gracefully took your final bow like the talented performer you are. All that excitement made your hands sweat, and you had trouble keeping a grip on those tiny pillows. They tumbled to the floor without a sound leaving you in nothing but a bowtie and a smile.”

I lean in, and a moan escapes my lips, drifting into his ear. “When I saw your cock for the first time, you left me speechless.” I offer him a moment to regain his composure. “I led you to the bed and instructed you to sit. Your chest was so warm and inviting that I couldn’t help but play with this chest hair.” My fingers finally get a chance to mimic my story. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was nervous. The thumping beneath my palms exceeding my own.

With hands steady and unwavering, and without the slightest hesitation, I reach for the hem of my t-shirt and pull it over my head in one quick movement. Not stopping there, I then hook my thumbs under the waistband of my pyjama bottoms and pull them down to reveal a pair of red knickers.

Whatever reaction I was expecting from him when I finally exposed all my lumps and bumps wasn’t what I got. He doesn’t sneer in disgust or glance away in shame. Instead, he licks his lips and takes his time looking at every inch of me.

The sight has me giddy, but I hold it together. I haven’t played my trump card yet.

“Well, what do we have here?” I slowly turn around and caress my right butt cheek that displays my little muppet friend. Colin doesn’t, or perhaps he can’t, take his eyes off my rear, so I give my bum a little squeeze and tap, making it jiggle. And while I have his attention preoccupied with the help of Animal bashing his drums, I glimpse at the straining bulge in his trousers. The pressure that zip must be under is mind-boggling.

Twanging the elastic around my hip, I make him flinch, bringing him back from whatever buttock fantasy he was picturing. “Are you hiding any friends?” I kneel and his thighs cradle my upper body, with my bare boobs squished between us. With a gentle touch, my forefinger traces the warm, smooth brass of his belt buckle, carefully exploring the intricate mechanism before finally flipping it open with a satisfying clink. The tension around his waist slackens, and the bulge at his crotch expands further.

I swiftly unbutton him, but then take my time to slowly lower the zip. His tented trousers reveal a hint of blue tartan peeking out from the opening. The poor thing must be suffocating.

“Look at me,” a teasing smile paints my lips. I don’t want him watching what I’m doing because I’ll tell him what I’m doing—that’s my job. From the outset, we’ve described every touch and tender gesture in written form. I’ve composed paragraphs on the sounds we make and the breaths we’ve shared. Lengthy discussions have revolved around the synchronicity of our movements, and the pressure of our kisses. We can’t stop now. It wouldn’t be us if we did.

I sit up and my harden nipples poke out from between us. Surprisingly I don’t feel the need to cover myself. If fact, I feel a little overdressed. Rising, I step back and remove my last piece of clothing.

Naked as the day I was born, I stand before him, my eyebrow cocked expectantly.

His jaw drops.

That’ll do.

Reaching for my phone, I turn on some music, then quickly grab a pillow, holding it in front of me to shield my body from view. But Colin’s knowing smile has me shaking my head. “Oh, no. I’m not dancing.” Placing the pillow on the floor, I kneel between his open legs.

“You’re…?” Colin finally utters. His voice is husky and deep, almost like it belongs to someone else.

Finding the slit in his boxers between the opening in his trousers is no straightforward task, so instead, I pull the lot off. Socks and all.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

My eyes almost cross when his cock springs free inches from my nose. It bounces back against his stomach with a loud slap and then lays there throbbing yet ramrod straight. I’m startled by the forceful twang, but I suppress my startled jump. A cool head is what I need right now, not a skittish virgin.

I lean forward and he moans when my hot breath grazes the tip. His musky scent fills the back of my nose, a powerful, primal aroma unlike anything I’ve ever encountered before. Although it’s different from mine, it’s far from unpleasant. This is the scent of a man, aroused to bursting because of little old me. The power this thought gives me is enough to force my knees together and cross my ankles behind me. The last thing I want is for my one and only pillow to become soaked with my juices.

I can’t believe at long last I’m getting to play with one of these things. To truly know why they call it a hard on, and if it does feel like velvet over hot steel. Has it always been just a play on words, or a flowery exaggeration? I’m curious to fondle and find out, but grabbing him in a tight fist might be a little too much to start with. Perhaps a single digit will do? I slowly drag my index finger down his length and the first skin to skin contact makes us both shudder. Now to discover its taste; what sweet, sour, bitter, or savoury delights might it hold?

“Wait. Are you sure?” He asks as I open my mouth.

I’ve never seen a mix of desperation, concern, and excitement on someone’s face before. I can't leave him waiting when he appears ready to burst. With conviction I state, “Abso-fuckin-lutely.”

His reaction is so palpable, it feels like I could taste the sweetness of his relief – a burst of sugary lightness, like a sweet cuppa after a hard day’s work. His relaxed demeanour is enjoyable to see, but he’s getting a little too comfortable for my liking. I'm Lady_W, and comfort isn't my style… well, not right now.

“Actually, I won’t move from this spot until you see stars whenever you blink, and your name slips from your memory. I’m going to suck you like a lollypop until my jaw aches.”

Without giving him a moment to process my words, I take him into my mouth. I take my time and use all the knowledge my spicy interests have taught me over the years. In My Daring Duke, it’s explained the importance of tongue control and the love of hand play, while in The Secret Lover, it’s expressed that no teeth should be part of such a delicate endeavour.

Just as a salty bead touches my tongue, Colin reaches up and strokes my cheek. The loving caress has me closing my eyes as I’m completely lost in the tender moment. He pulls me off him with a small pop, then rubs my lips with the soft pad of his thumb before giving me the sweetest of kisses. The slightest tremor is still there—from both of us.

“Wait…I’m not finished.” I protest when we separate for breath.

Colin’s hand drops from my cheek to my left breast. His fingertips trace the curve, caressing my skin with the barest of touches. With a deep breath, he takes the full weight into the palm of his hand, feeling the smooth surface against his skin.

At first it feels alien, as I’ve had nothing but my own hands and synthetic polyester touch these places for as long as I can remember. But that feeling quickly vanishes and I become a melting pot in his giant hands.

“I beg you,” he says as he watches his thumb draw circles around my aching nipple. “Don’t let me wait any longer.”        

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him off the chair. We both tumbled to the floor in a heap, his heavy weight pinning me to the ground, the impact jarring my breath. No matter how graceless our spill, we land flawlessly, our bodies somehow instinctively aligning with an uncanny precision. His hard length slides effortlessly between my labia, and my wetness coats him enough to where he almost slips inside. Considering our height difference, laying down poses no difficulties and we’re able to kiss again in earnest.

“Wallet.” He utters between kisses.

 Using nothing but my toes in a manoeuvre only seen on the wild side of the internet, I steal his wallet from his trousers that’s hiding in the pile in the centre of my room. He whimpers and looks longingly into my eyes when I give him the little square.

He climbs off as I jump into bed and snuggle under my duvet, kicking my feet in excitement.

“Oh, hell no,” he exclaims, yanking the cover off me and diving headfirst between my legs.

I’m not prepared. Even with a countdown, I'm not sure I'd’ve been ready. The first lick and my back arches off the bed. The second, and I’m reaching for his hair. The third, and I’m seeing stars.

I’m not sure how long he’s down there, as my mind is floating in the heavens. Seconds could be days. Minutes could be the colour purple. Where am I? I’ve no idea.

“Will you do me the honour?” He kneels between my parted legs and hands me the unopened condom, while his erection winks at me.

All giddy and a little shaky, I grabbed it from his fingers and tear into it with my teeth. Just like everything else, putting on a condom is new to me. Stretching one over a banana in sex education class when I was fourteen doesn’t count.

“Couldn’t have done it better myself.” He leans over me and glances down the length of our bodies to admire my handy work.

“All set?” I ask him.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,”

Our mouths collide, a magnetic force that pulls us closer, our lips locked in a passionate dance. Another kiss with the same person, yet it feels different. This time there’s comfort and familiarity between us. He knows what I like, and I already know what he enjoys. My fingers intertwine in the shaggy locks of his dark brown hair as he slides a hand beneath my bum and pulls me towards him.

He thrusts, grazing my clit as it slides between our stomachs. Once, then twice. And just before the third time, he pulls away and looks down at me, our foreheads almost touching. “I-I think I…,” he says just before I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him towards my heated centre. He falls at the perfect angle and plunges into me. I sense a slight burning as I stretch around him, but no other pain—my hymen was taken care of many years ago by my own impatient hand.

My breathing deepens, sweat beads, and pleasure intensifies as he moves on top of me. The headboard launches into a rhythmic song against the wall, and I smile as I hear a few expletives coming from outside my room.

He quickens his pace, lifting one of my legs higher around his waist and drives home. The familiar build is on its way, but there’s something different about this orgasm. It’s more intense, and this time I’m not in control of it.

I’m almost there and I pull him in closer, scratching his back as my body starts to seize. His yell becomes a hiss as the pain I’m causing mingles with his own release. After one last thrust, he falls on top of me, sweaty and spent.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“Where the fuck have you been? You missed the lecture. I had to put up with Fran all by myself.”

With a yawn escaping my lips and the taste of sleep still clinging to my tongue, I mumble, "It's too early for that kind of language."

“What are you talking about? It’s three in the afternoon.”

“What?!” Startled, I sit up.

 “Are you still in bed? Hun, you need to come off that website before you hear the birds chirping. It’s not good for you.”

Flinging the duvet off me, I hurry to the toilet. My jiggly bits on full display. “No, it's not that. I banged my head yesterday and had to go to the hospital. I’m recovering.”

“Girl, why didn’t you call me? I could’ve given you a lift and sat with you in the waiting room. Did you call an ambulance?”

“No, I…” My naked body shuffles to my bathroom door. I open it a crack just to confirm I wasn’t dreaming about what happened after I got home.

“Yeah, I’m still here.” Colin says, his smiling face reaches me from the far side of the bed.

“El, I’ll call you later.” I whisper behind the door.

“No, wait…”

I thread an arm through the gap in the door and yank my duvet off the bed. A small yelp in protest from Colin immediately follows, but I’m too busy wrapping it around myself to apologise.

“Good morning…WOOD!” I exclaim without thinking, when I step out of the bathroom. Colin’s noticeable bare excitement taking me by surprise.

“Yes, it is.” He laughs and pulls me back to the bed where I fall, covering his modesty with my body. He kisses me, and once again, I'm reduced to a puddle of gooey, lovesick emotion.

 “Don’t you have a load of kids waiting for you?”

“Trying to get rid of me already? Alright, where’s my shoes?” He partially sits up and tries to shuffle around me.

“No, don’t go.” I lay a palm on his chest and push him back down. “I mean, you’re not a prisoner. But you don’t have to go on my account.”

“Good, because I’ve already got the time off, remember? They’re not expecting me for days.”

“How much detail did you go into when you asked for the time off?”

“I kept it short and sweet. I had a break-in and had to talk to the police about it. Then I had to take my girlfriend to the hospital. That’s about it.”

I hide the bottom half of my face under the cover, concealing my megawatt grin. “Girlfriend?”

He sits up and slowly unwraps me like I’m his Christmas gift. “Ah, so the blush goes all the way down.”

We stand back, allowing the occasional student to pass us by. The winds have died down since yesterday, but the slight breeze is still chilly through the weave of my fuzzy pink bathrobe I’d quickly slipped on.

“Just need to sort out my statement with the police. Grab a few changes of clothes, then we can go out for dinner. A proper date this time, with wine and dessert. Not a computer in sight.”

Colin’s soft stubble brushes against my forehead as I snuggle into his goodbye hug. His arms, warm and solid, seem to wrap around my body twice. For the first time in my life, I feel petite and delicate and protected from the world.

“In case I forgot to say it yesterday,” my throat is so thick with emotion, I’m surprised I can still breathe. “Thank you for helping me to the hospital.”

“Hey, you’re making it sound like I’m never coming back. Three hours, remember? Four, tops.” His arms grow tighter as he lowers his head and whispers in my ear, “And there’s no need to thank me. I would’ve come for you, even if you’d just stubbed a toe.” After a lingering kiss that seems to last an eternity, he strolls toward his car, a slight jig in his step.

I hear a girl softly exhaling behind me, her proximity a clear sign she was eavesdropping on our private conversation. She steps closer, and while wiping away a tear tells me, “That one’s a keeper.”

I have to agree.

The lonely walk back to my flat is a gauntlet of broken beer bottles and half-full cups of stale fruity cocktails. The potent scent of chemicals fills the air as the walls showcase new signatures, obscene drawings, and some surprisingly poetic quotations.

It is part of a university, after all. 

My initial thought is to call my parents and fill them in on my hospital visit. However, El has been calling constantly, and she’s the last person I can leave waiting.

“Finally!” El shouts down the rotary phone line. “What happened, and how did you get to the hospital? Was it Cressida? Did she suddenly grow a conscience?”

“No, I bumped into her in the hallway downstairs, but she was too concerned about the carpet covered in blood to offer me a ride to the hospital. Did you know she was throwing a big shindig here when we got back to the flat? Unfortunately, it wasn’t my Get Well Soon party…”

“Er…Who’s we?”

I take a moment to realise my slip of the tongue. El isn’t the cleverest of our bunch, but she certainly is nosey. I believe that’s why we get on so well.

“I thought you’d got a taxi to the hospital,” she continues. “Who did you call if not a taxi? Because it definitely wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t call anyone. Someone picked me up and took me, actually.”

“Who?” suspicion lacing her voice.

I take a deep breath before blurting out Colin’s name. “I know I said I’d never meet him in person, but things have changed. You should have seen him, El. He was like a knight in shining armour. Oh, and then we got back to the flat and things started heating…”

“Colin, who?” El interrupts. It’s so unlike her to do so. She’s usually the first person to ask for the sordid details, sometimes beating me to the punch.

“It’s funny you should ask. You three share a last name. Small world, right? El. You still there?”

A delicate brushing of something against the phone breaks the quiet. “Pen, it’s Fran. What have you just said to El? She’s being weird. She’s kinda freaking me out.”

I keep my story brief, taking a leaf out of Colin’s book. Short and sweet. “Oh, I think she’s just a little shocked that I’ve finally met that guy from the chat room. You know, the one I’ve been talking to for months? He stayed the night,” I giggle. “He’s coming back in a few hours after sorting out a few things at home. Then we’re going out for dinner. We’re finally going to have a proper date, Fran.”

“Oh, my God, that’s so cute. I’m so happy…El…wait…where are you going? Oh, El’s just stepped out.” Concern suddenly replaces her excitement. “I bet Cressida had something to say about your new houseguest.” She clears her throat. “I’m guessing you were a little…loud for her liking?”

“You know her. If she isn’t the centre of attention, she’s never happy. But she had a party to host while he was here. I’m guessing that took her mind off him.”

“I bet she was jealous. But then again, she’d be upset of anyone you brought home. I’m sure he was hot. He’s hot, right?”

“You’ve no idea. And to think of it, we might never have met up. If I hadn't fallen and hit my head, I would never have mustered up the courage to take things further.” I glance at the little shelf by my bed. In my mind, I can still see the clump of blood and hair sticking to the edge. The image jarring another memory of my time in the hospital. “Do you remember Kate, the woman that used to live here with me?”

“I thought she was called Winny?”

“No, that was the other one. I bumped into Kate at the hospital. She was shocked I still lived here. Apparently, Cressida pulled a few strings and got her and Winny evicted. Threw in a few threats to make sure it stuck.”

“You’re joking?” Fran pauses for a moment, “Why didn’t Cressida try to get you out, too? What makes you so special?”

“I thought the same thing. I think she might have tried, but it didn’t work. She just carried on with the insults, hoping I might leave on my own accord.”

“But why did she want you all gone? Did she have friends lined up to take the vacant rooms?”

“I doubt it. If that was the case, we would have other roommates by now. Maybe she just wanted the flat to herself?”

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door so loud that even Fran yelps in surprise. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” With a sharp click the phone call ends and I move to the door, my heart pounding as I already know who’s going to be on the other side of it.

Cressida stands before me with her hands on hips, and lips pursed in a thin line. Their usual plump appearance is now devoid of her favourite filler. “I would appreciate a little warning the next time you bring people over. I had to spend all night convincing people you’re just squatting.” She turns, flicking her hair over her shoulder, and heads back to her side of the flat.

“No, Cressida.” I shout down the hallway. Her sense of entitlement is finally pushing me over the edge. “I pay rent, too.”

Cressida rushes back, her foot scraping against the floor as she slides it in the door before I can fully close it. She straightened, her eyes blazing with anger at my words. The fire quickly replaced by a chilling, cruel grin. “How much did he set you back?”

“What?”

“You’re not the time to bribe something to sleep with you, so you must have paid for him. He’s way out of your league, so you must have hired him. I’m surprise you could afford him when you can’t even afford decent food. The only good thing you’ve had in weeks was that fancy brie hidden in the back of the fridge. It was delicious, by the way.”

“Cressida, did someone beat you up as a kid? I wouldn’t blame them. Or was it as simple as getting up on the wrong side of the bed? There must be something that’s caused you to become such a malicious cunt.”

Did all that just come out of me? I want to jump for joy when Cressida’s mouth suddenly falls open. She may now insult my mother, wish ill upon my firstborn, or even mock El’s fashion sense, but nothing can take this feeling away from me.

“Well, I’d rather have a malicious cunt than a fat one,” she smirks.

Nope. Not this time, Cressida. Her usual diatribe won’t work on me. I just lost my V-card to the hottest guy on the planet, and I'm looking forward to more when he returns.
Colin likes me just as I am. Nothing can bring me down from this high.

“I’m afraid Colin would beg to differ. He can’t get enough of my fat cunt.”

“Who the fuck is Colin?”

I don’t bother answering her. The mask of faux confusion doesn’t sit well on her face. Cressida knows precisely who Colin is, and I know because she heard the sounds coming from my room over the past few hours. She knows his name because I screamed it when I came… multiple times. And just to refresh her memory—as she’s called me every other derogatory name there is bar my own—he’s screamed my name, too.

“Well, Pen…”

See, I knew she heard us.

“…Men like that don’t go out with women like you. But let’s say you’re lucky and you keep his attention for a time. Eventually he’ll start to resent you. He’ll see what he’s missing out on. Hell, I might as well take Colin off your hands now. Save you the trouble.”

My hand tightens on the door handle, the cold metal digging into my palm. She’s baiting me, and if I’m not careful, I’m going to fall for it like I always do. I turn around and as the door closes in her face I say, “Why are you so obsessed with me?” The lock clicks into place and I just onto my bed, smiling from ear to ear.

A moment passes before I hear a faint whisper just outside my door, “You’re getting too cocky around here. That needs fixing.” The words are barely audible beyond the solid wood, but it’s enough for my smile to fall.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

A whimsical twinkle reflects off glass partitions, dividing one part of the restaurant with another. A single candle illuminates the centre of each small table, giving couples a bubble of warmth and privacy. The server refills our long-stemmed glasses with a fine white wine, then slips the almost empty bottle inside a silver cooler by the table.

Colin leans in and takes my hand. As I stare into his kind eyes, his soft smile brings a calming warmth that soothes my soul. His breath ghosts the back of my hand as he places a gentle kiss on it.

All night, a particular person has been absent from our conversations. However, I expect one of us will bring her up shortly. It’s inevitable. I’m dreading it, as it’s going to be like a bruise on our otherwise perfect evening. But Colin’s spent most of the day talking about her to the police, and I need to know if I’m safe sleeping in my flat or if I’m camping on Fran’s bedroom floor until the end of our year.

“Police advised changing the locks and reporting Marina if anything similar happens in the future. They’re going to talk to your halls of residence and trespass her from the property, then give her a warning in person. She’s never been in trouble before. I’m sure once the police come a-knocking, it’ll scare her half to death. I don’t think we’ll see her again.” Colin gives my hand an assuring squeeze.

“She interrupted our first kiss, you know. That’s a crime in my book. They should arrest her just for that and throw away the key.”

“I can’t believe I forgot to mention that in the report. What can I do to make up to you?”

“I’m sure I can think of something.”

We decide to end our meal and refuse dessert. Though Colin's mischievous smile appeals to my sweet tooth, his eyes create a far stronger desire.

The air is cold yet refreshing as we walk hand in hand through the deserted campus.

“Allow me.” Colin takes my keycard and swipes the little black box by the gate. A knowing smile passes between us as he hands it back. Music assaults our ears when he pulls open the heavy door to my building. As we ascend, the noise increases, becoming almost unbearable by my flat's door. I slide my brass key in to lock, but instead of the usual resistance, the handle becomes loose and hangs limply.

“Does it usually do that?” Colin’s shouts close to my ear.

“What do you think?” I regret my sarcasm instantly and rethink my answer. “I mean, no. It’s not something that usually happens. The iron gate outside isn’t wonderful, but the locks for the flats are pretty robust.”

With a push of a single finger, the door swings open. The music comes to a sudden halt as the other side of the handle loudly collides with the wall. The sudden silence causes a ringing in my ears, and goosebumps to appear on my arms.

“Let’s just get in. I’ve suddenly caught a chill.” I utter, more to reassure myself than to direct Colin to follow.

He rubs the tops of my arms and gently pushes me into the darkened hallway. With a trembling hand, I run the tips of my fingers over the wall in search of the plastic light switch. I let out a breath when I finally feel the cold plastic. Yet, when I flip it, nothing happens.

I flip it again.

Nothing.

“I’ll go to the supervisor’s office tomorrow for a new bulb. Oh, and don’t close the…” The door slams shut behind us, the handle rattling in its place. I stretch my eyes wide, trying to find a hint of light in the sea of black, but nothing more than a subtle glow leaks through the glass in the living room door. Finding the tiny keyhole to my bedroom feels impossible, especially with the silence amplifying the sound of our every movement. A rustle of fabric. The jingle of keys. A crunch beneath our feet.

“What’s that?” I ask Colin through the darkness.

“Feels like glass. Ouch!”

“You alright?” I reach out and feel Colin crouched form on the floor.

“What is it with this place? Every time I’m here, I bleed.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a coincidence.”

“Here” I hear a faint rustle then Colin hands me his phone with the torch turned on.

“I would have found the keyhole, eventually.” I smirk.

“Sure.”

I stab the lock with my key, but even with the light, I’m unable to unlock it.

“I feel like you’re doing this on purpose. Do you like me unlocking things for you? Alright, give me the key. Do you want me to bend over while I do it?” Colin chuckles.

“No, wait. My key isn’t working.” I examine the key then check the door, only to find that someone had mysteriously replaced my brass lock with a shiny silver one. “Someone’s changed my lock.” The slight buzz from the bottle of wine we shared earlier is gone, and I’m suddenly stone cold sober.

“Have you got a number you can call? The office? A supervisor? A magician?”

“I think there might be one in the welcome pack on the kitchen counter.”

On my way to the kitchen, I check the locks of the other bedrooms to see if they’re in the same state as mine. “They’ve all been changed, except for Cressida’s.”

I open the kitchen door, and a blast of cold air hits me. The sudden burst of wind pushes the blinds aside, revealing a damaged double-glazed window—a fist-sized hole in its centre. I toggle the light switch, already knowing what will happen. The room stays in darkness expect for the subtle glow of the streetlamps coming through the fluttering blinds.

Surprisingly, the welcome pack is still in the same place it’s been for the last six months. I throw my bag onto the counter and drag the folder towards me. The smooth outer sleeve calms my panic for a moment, but my dread returns when I open the folder to find nothing but a post-it note.

“What’s this?” I peel it from the folder and show it to Colin. As soon as he sees it, his face turns deathly pale. He locks his gaze on the small square in my hand, and just as he is about to take it, he recoils.

“What does it say?” Colin asks, a tremble in his voice.

 “Pen, it’s over between us. Please don’t contact me again.” From the shadows on the other side of the room, a woman's voice, raspy and low, echoes the words written on the paper.

We spin in that direction, but my vision isn’t good enough to see in the darkness.

“Who are you?” I ask the woman.

The place remains black, except for the area directly around Colin’s feet where the floor is illuminated by his phone. Several tiny shards of shattered glass glisten among the fibres of the carpet.

“I wasn’t going to put a post-it in there, but she told me to.” The woman continues.

My eyes finally adjust to the darkness, but still all I can see is the silhouette of a woman. Tall and slender, a messy bun sitting atop her head, with a few stray strands framing her face.

“One over there says, Leave me alone.” The voice continues, “One on the fridge says, I’m going to marry Marina. That one is my favourite.”

I follow the light that Colin is now shining on the wall behind me. Instead of beige, the cabinet doors are now a vibrant collage of pink, yellow, and green paper. Rows and rows of post-its, each with their own unique fabricated scribble. There are hundreds of them tacked to not just the cabinets, but also the cooker, fridge, and kettle. Some annotated with hearts and kisses. Others with just words. They're so unnerving that my usually strange sense of humour can't even crack a smile.

I peel one off the kettle and hold it up to the light.   

I don’t fuck fatties.

“Marina, how did you get in here?” I ask just as Colin yanks open the blinds, allowing the room to be flooded with a yellow haze.

 “I let her in.” Cressida calls out from the open kitchen door.